Memory and Fate
by Immortal Scientist
Summary: When a mysterious chapter of the Emperor's own Adeptus Astartes stumbles upon forgotten secrets, it sets them on a collision course with the dark past of Remnant.
1. Prologue

Memory and Fate

Prologue: Discovery amid Ruin

" _They may strive to forge their own future, but they will never be free from their past. Condemned to repeat it? That is another question"- Abramus, Ordo Hereticus_

-x-

Prologue Part 1: The Champion's Mission

The crude ax comes down in a chaotic arc towards the combat shield, unrefined, primitive. The energy field splinters the blade first and then the arm behind it. The wielder's head has already joined the fragmented metal on the blood-stained soil.

The grassland Agri-world of Verdas is awash in the sounds of battle, gunfire, and the guttural howling of the Orkish tide as a cacophony of war rips through the air. A once peaceful rift valley is now overflowing in the blood and battlecry of Humans and Orks alike as the warrior's mortal counterparts charge forward in an immense armored wave. They flank the Emperor's Angels of Death and pay for every inch of ground they reclaim.

But they do not hesitate, not anymore

4th Company Champion Judah of the Ashen Heralds is not concerned with grand stratagem, only singling out the next largest foe, he moves with grace practiced over four and a half centuries of relentless war towards the next snarling Ork mob. He is secure in his war-plate, ancient Maximus-Artificer pattern. The venerable suit itself is painted in the chapter shades of midnight black, sterling silver and blazing gold. The Aquila is worn proudly on his broad chest plate. On his masterwork pauldrons lay the chapter symbol, a smoking torch superimposed over squared lines of silver scripture.

His pauldrons and chest plate are inlaid with stained glass depicting miniature scenes from chapter history. Silver etched scripture denoting the history of his plate and the deeds performed by its bearers run across every inch of his armor's surface in a flowing river of calligraphic mastery. Atop his fusion power plant backpack rests a blazing torch icon whose markings exalt both his company and chapter. Rich tapestries and purity seals forming a sort of tabard and open, bound scrolls adorn his armor in such a fashion that one could think of him as a moving shrine.

A moving shrine which has now decapitated six more Orks in the next two breaths. A veil is over his eyes behind the helmet, laser focused on nothing but the enemies before him. At nothing but the final encampment his brothers advance upon.

Judah falls into a sustained trance as he carves through the onrushing greenskins. He works himself into a simple rhythm. The sword comes up, Orks die, the sword comes down and more Orks die. His combat shield's power field as adept at crushing skulls and pulping torsos as it is parrying Orkish weaponry.

"OY!"

Judah's trance pauses for the briefest of moments as he beholds a much larger Ork barreling towards him. It is clearly a Nob, a great green mass of muscle and iron that easily matches the Astartes in height and mass, even in his full war-plate. The Nob raises a great growling chainaxe over its head and the teeth spring to life.

" **Stop killin' all me best boyz!"** the Nob swings the axe wildly, Judah deftly sidestepping the slash as the Nob readies another strike **. "I need em good and whole to stomp dat poncy git over-**

*SHHHINK*

He jams the blade into the talkative Nob's open mouth. The tip emerges from the back of the beast's skull in a spray of brackish blood. The sound the Nob makes no longer resembles talking. It's choking. It's choking on a meter and a half of master-crafted adamantium that has suddenly displaced all the brain matter in its head. Judah pays as much attention to his most recent kill as one would while crushing a fly.

The Champion pivots on his feet. The power sword is a blur in his hands. He carves another Nob from shoulder to groin and lops the arms off another. Another one jumps at him, power klaw crackling madly. Judah smashes his sword fist into the creature's mouth. Broken teeth sprinkle down like rain as Judah's boot pulverizes its already fractured skull.

A standard Astartes can process information at breakneck pace. They can make target selections, gauge distances, and judge threat priorities at a time span measured in between mortal human heartbeats. To them, everything is framed in perfect clarity, testament to a mind working at transhuman speeds.

Judah surpassed even that limit in his second century. The Champion vaults over meter-high corpse piles. He shoulders his way through lesser Orks. His legs pound into the floor in a continuous blur. Even at such ludicrous speeds he hacks and slices his way toward the center of the encampment.

It is as if the Orks are moving underwater to him, great lumbering oafs that while physically strong seem to lack the mind to **utilize** that raw power. A more armored variant of the Nobs leaps into his way, wielding a stubber-like weapon whose bullets ping off his shield. It believes the metal plates dotting its body will be sufficient to protect it. Judah bashes the gun away and spears his sword deep into its chest before moving up, splitting its head in half. Blood squirts out like oil pouring from a reservoir, as well as actual oil.

More snarling Orks charge at him, far too many and far too heavily armed for even him to fight all at once. Luckily for the Champion, Judah's charges are far from helpless. A great upwelling of ozone signals the attack milliseconds before it is unleashed. Arcing eldritch tendrils of warp-powered lightning scream forth. Like ravenous predators they twist and curl through rubble and over mounds of Orkish dead to find their victims.

Many smaller Orks simply explode under the sheer power, while others are reduced to cinders and blackened bone. A great swathe of ground before him is swept clean of Orks as the lightning arcs back and forth among the horde.

Turning for the briefest second, stoic green lenses meet swirling blue eyes, baleful lightning still arcing from the twin portals. Then he is back in the fight, boots crushing the charred remains. To his side an Apothecary lays down fire with a bolter while attending to a wounded brother, shrapnel perforating the knee joint of his war-plate. The sight of the company's great banner held high signifies that the standard bearer's duty is being upheld. Master-crafted bolt rounds from the loyal protector of the sacred relic sing out towards the Orks.

Far to the flanks, armored forms of Leman Russ tanks roll alongside several of the ancient vehicles fielded in number by the Chapter. Shells, missiles, and even bursts of plasma scream and crash into the battered encampment and accompanying horde.

The battle-trance remains unbroken, only gathering in pitch as Judah nears his objective. Already the largest of the snarling Nobs sallies forth to meet him. The Ashen Herald swings his blade up to answer their challenge. He cleaves heads from shoulders and chops hands from wrists. He severs legs in thick spurts of arterial spray and tears out organs with great disemboweling strokes. He smashes aside return blows with his sword and shield, lashing out with his own blistering ripostes.

He kills the Orks like vermin. He slaughters them as they come. He takes them apart limb from limb until they are squirming corpses at his feet. He leaves a trail of mutilated bodies on the valley floor like ink splotches on his tapestries. The fighting around him reaches a fevered zenith.

At the center of the maelstrom, the eye of the storm parts to reveal a truly menacing site. It looms a full head and shoulders over its lesser kin, towering over them the same way an Astartes towers over mortal men.

Every inch of its body is covered in either brutally complex plated armor or corded muscle so thick it may as well be. Its right hand is covered with a massive armored pincer stuffed with sparking coils and buzzing diodes. Another hand wields a long-curved saber hammered from the wreck of a mighty war machine. Cybernetic parts trace bulging paths throughout the body of the massive Ork, most noticeably replacing half of its face and lower jaw.

The look in its singular organic eye is what sets it apart from the brutes under its command. While there is certainly a great amount of bloodlust present the true mark of its superiority is the knowing malice in them. A malevolent pool of deep red with a sickly yellow pupil belies a tale of years of pillage and slaughter. Upon sighting the approaching champion, the massive half-Dreadnought sized Meganob seizes what's left of its face into a simulacrum of a sick grin.

All of this is secondary in Judah's mind however, for his eyes are drawn to the creature's enormous back. Totems bearing Orkish sigils and other indecipherable runes make up the majority.

A few trophies are nailed or spitted onto the numerous spikes; many are the heads of PDF officers if the prevalence of high peaked caps is to be believed. But one singular bauble adorning the rack has drawn the Champion's laser focus. It is the helmet of one of his company's brothers.

With blood still dripping down the pole

Judah is dimly aware of the Librarian behind him tearing an approaching Nob in half with a telekinetic **heave**. Nor is he much concerned with anything else as a cold shroud darkens his mind until all that is left is the two warriors. Interlopers trickle in but many even on the Orkish side know that to get in between this fight is a death sentence.

The Meganob speaks after the briefest of moments, his voice as corrugated and rusty as the metal replacing his jaw. He gestures to the helmet

" **Dis one a friend a' yours?**

Judah takes off like a boltshell, sword and combat shield primed. Like a graceful wisp of smoke, the Champion dances under and through the guard of the Meganob. Judah dodges under a hurried yet brutal saber slash at the last moment, the edge passing inches over his helmet. The Meganob is taken aback as his malicious yellow pupil ever so slightly dilates, normal Astartes are fast but not this fast in full war-plate.

Judah is no ordinary Astartes

He thrusts his power sword towards the neck. Any other xenos-breed and this would have been a killing blow beyond a shadow of a doubt. But this Ork's seemingly crude armor and cybernetics are sturdier than it appears. This theory is cemented further when his foe tries to bisect him without a hint of being inconvenienced by the sword rammed into its neck.

Judah disengages and parries quickly with the shield, power field flaring to life to counter the mad claw as he backpedals to get outside the reach of the raging behemoth. Sloppy, overeager, reckless, these chastisements worm into the Champion's head as the cold battle-lust fades back into the trance of war. How dare he let this Ork bait him so? The title of Champion confers more responsibility than mere swordplay.

This is no ordinary Ork

The Ork cracks its neck with the whirring of crude servos, blood and oil leaking from the nearly-cauterized wound. Its expression darkens and the hand clenching the saber strains with barely-controlled strength.

" **Almost got me dere."**

The Meganob sweeps his saber in a wide series of arcing slashes that the Champion ducks with less and less ease as the Meganob works itself into a parody of true Astartes focus. Its strength is such that Judah chooses to redirect the blade away rather than take the full brunt of the impact. Gliding the edges of his sword and shield against the whirling saber the two exchanges a bevy of blows. An opening presents itself for the barest of moments but that is all the Champion needs. Intending to disarm the sword hand Judah ripostes the blade to the side but is forced back when the crackling pincer lunges towards his midsection.

*KZZZRRT-THOOOM*

To the surprise of both combatants the limb never reaches its target, mainly due to the psychic thunderbolt blowing most of it apart in a shower of sparking fury. The diodes and coils turn to charred slag and metal melts into the Meganob's skin, eliciting a cry of raging agony from the cyber-Ork as it tears off the outer shell of his molten klaw. Judah concedes that survivability may be preferable than singular honor against a greenskin. Silently thanking the battle-psyker he pushes forward when the enraged beast charges at him. Out massing the marine almost half over it takes a considerable portion of his strength to stay on his feet. It bellows in a voice of straining gears and burning promethium.

" **DAT ZOGGIN 'URT YA ZOGGIN PIECE A-GRRRRAAHHHH!"**

Leveraging its prodigious weight forward the semi-organic, semi-cybernetic, and now semi-molten hand grasps the combat shield even with the power field slowly destroying the ruined appendage. The saber crashes against the power sword even as it pushes the Champion back further. Wild swings born of pain and blind rage are narrowly blocked or deflected before the Meganob pushes its' luck too far. The ancient power sword swings toward the base of the saber, finding purchase in a minute crack that it exploits to the fullest when the length of the blade goes flying.

The loss of its sword does not even faze the blood-mad Meganob as the now free hand quickly grabs the Champion right below the sword hand, handle acting as an impromptu shield to counter the power sword. The nearly ruined right hand is slowly losing its ability to function as the shield inches up closer to the Meganob's head. As his armor and muscles strain, Judah comes face to face with the Ork.

" **I'M GEARSMASHA THE DED 'ARD YA BLOODY ZOGGIN SPACE MARINE, WHAT'RE YOU!?"**

 _"The Victor"_

 _The voice commands finality_

The Meganob makes to scoff before a steadily rising whine of fulminous energy catches its ear. It looks to the right and down near the charred metal skeleton that used to be an arm.

There is a plasma gun mounted on the inside of the combat shield.

Gearsmasha allows himself a moment of pause before his face is impacted with a miniature sun. The involuntary jerk of his head at the last second ensures his death will not be clean.

In microseconds the outer layer of skin is simply rendered into vapor. The soft tissue layers underneath quickly follow suit as the blazing bolt of pure energy tears its way in a diagonal line up the Ork's face. The cybernetics turns molten, causing an even greater amount of excruciating pain and damage. Gearsmasha staggers back and slowly topples to his back in an unceremonious pile.

Stalking up towards the felled beast, Judah beholds the extent of the damage.

All but a quarter of the face is gone, revealing yellowish and charred bone. Its cybernetics pool in veins of charred muscle as sparking wires fuse to the tissue. Yet as a testament to Orkish survivability the singular red eye moves about rapidly and what muscles are left in the face attempt to force the seared meat to respond. Judah meets the oculus, beholding a suitably muted yet powerful expression of such hatred and indignant rage that were it capable of doing so it would have torn him limb from limb.

"Gearsmasha" His voice is that of quizzically disinterested judgment "You…I deem you **unworthy** of remembrance."

If the crippled Meganob had deigned to look at the blade of the rapidly descending power sword, he would have seen the miniature names enshrined across nearly half of its onyx length.

There were hundreds

-x-

Prologue Part 2: The Lorekeeper's Callings

Epistolary Solomon Arrikain looked on upon the fallen Meganob and gore-spattered champion with quizzical yet uneasy eyes, glancing back at the path of violence he had cut through Orkish lines into the now burning camp.

With the death of their leader and most other high-ranking Nobs the Orks either fought amongst themselves for dominance or fled. Either route ended only in their extermination at the hands of the Ashen Heralds. Apothecary Methus left to tend to the wounded while the Ancient Silas stood stoically nearby. All that was left were mop-up operations left to numerous kill-teams and the vengeful PDF remnants.

This WAAAGH had hit the planet hard; casualties for the PDF had been significant. The Verdan PDFs front-line forces suffered ~80% casualties in the opening days of the Rok bombardment, forcing the planet to resort to the deployment of rear-line troops and conscripted civilian militia against the remaining Ork presence - which was still gargantuan despite all the damage that had been inflicted upon it by Imperial Navy pickets. Orkish walkers and other vehicles pillaged across the fertile plains and besieged the final stronghold of the capital. Things looked hopeless.

Then elements of the Ashen Herald's chapter fleet arrived in-system

The 4th and 3rd companies made planetfall within hours and relieved the planetary capital's beleaguered defenders. Like a tidal wave of dark vengeance, the armored forms of Astartes thoroughly cleansed the capital and surrounding farmland. Then the Orks met **real** armor on the plains.

In a great clash of metal and fire the Captains of both companies had engaged the Warboss on the back of a mighty battlewagon. It took ten blows from a thunder hammer and several dozen bolt rounds to finally bring down the beast. Orks scattered before them in a disorganized route

The 4th moved out to the collapsed frontline, reinforcing the PDF and pushing back the greenskin horde while the 3rd cleansed the major urban centers. With the roars of bolter and chainsword, the greenskins were cut down, and their largest war machines were reduced to wrecks by the heavily armored spearhead of the Chapter's venerable vehicle bay.

After hours of intensive battle, the Ork horde was totally broken and the imperial forces finally had the WAAAGH on its back foot. This Meganob had retreated to this valley, an earlier battlefield littered with destroyed Imperium armor to construct more war machines.

The Heralds never gave it the chance, now they would pursue the remaining xenos down to the last

Solomon softly walked on towards the Champion who now tore strips of fabric from a nearby tent, force axe still sparking slightly as his residual power faded. As was the Chapter's custom his armor was just as much if not more decorated with history.

Venerable artificer plate of undetermined pattern covered him, horned skulls and a deep cerulean complementing the already beautiful war-plate. A master crafted psychic hood adorned a pale face that seemed both aged and yet held a sense of overwhelming power.

A robe embossed and inscribed with breathtaking detail covered him like an Ecclesiarch monk, composed of rich shades of color depicting the Chapter's history in a pseudo-bas relief. Silver-embossed cylindrical trinkets hung on great chains wrapped around the Librarian's neck. Sheathing his force axe the psyker paused in his steps to behold the champion reverently remove the severed helmeted head of Brother Armoni, placing it on the swathe of cloth before wrapping it.

"While noble, recklessly facing the Meganob while we were engaged with its guard was uncalled for." His voice was like the calm just after a storm. "I doubt Armoni would have agreed vengeance overrode duty"

The Champion paused, still looking at the wrapped head "He deserves a proper burial."

A moment of uneasy silence ticked by

Solomon sighed knowingly, his voice smoother "I understand your personal sentiments on the matter, but my point still stands."

Judah nodded slightly "I _was_ …overambitious to say the least." He gathers the head in both hands, clipping the fabric to his belt, "I saw him fall defending his squad and be defiled in the distance and could not contain myself, I apologize."

"No apologies necessary Judah, we can give the head back to Stoneskin squad if you so desire." The Librarian smiles "Now let us inspect the final situation on the ground with them before we move out."

"Thank you, Solomon." Sheathing his sword yet keeping the plasma gun primed they move out into the camp.

The camp itself had been hastily constructed (even by Orkish standards) in the middle of a relatively recent battlefield. Half-stripped Leman Russ tanks, Chimeras and other vehicles littered the ground as well as the decomposing bodies of half-trained PDF troopers. Situated near the mouth of the valley the armored chokepoint had been woefully unprepared for the green tide that had surged through the valley entrance.

Forging on and out of the central area and the now blazing corpse of the Meganob, they behold the mortals who remain of the PDF. Greenhorn conscripts and officers only slightly more experienced pile the shattered corpses of Orks high before flamer armed troops set the piles alight to reduce the inevitable spores they would release. The relatively few remaining marines are treated with the honored reverence that is to be expected of mortals, their saviors. A nearly full tactical squad moves in between tents and rusty scrap piles burning any corpses found.

Approaching the squad, the Champion zeroes in on one brother, the silver-helmeted Sergeant in command

"Lysippus"

The brother in question turns around, war-plate much less decorated but still venerable Maximus pattern. Marching up, he greets the Champion with a clasped fist against his chest plate.

"Champion Judah-", he goes still for a moment when he sees the slightly reddened cloth held at the ornamented warrior's side. Judah presents the wrapped head to the battle brother with the practiced reverence one would associate with the Chaplaincy. Accepting the offering the brother nods in solemn respect.

"I and my squad thank you deeply for retrieving him and for bringing vengeance upon that accursed greenskin."

Judah inclines his head "May brother Armoni's deeds rest in our memory and in his wargear."

"To the ashes we go-"

"-and may we rise once again"

They clasp arms briefly before pulling back. "How fares the situation on the ground?"

Solomon listens to the detailed report given by the brother and feels a sense of relief. The Orks have scattered to the four winds and are already being hunted down from the air and land by gunships and biker squads dispatched by 3rd Captain Malchus. Without the firepower and protection of battlewagons and other such contraptions the open plains became vast killing fields.

 **come**

Solomon pauses for the briefest of moments as a subtle chime enters his perception. He swivels his eyes and focuses his superhuman hearing. The sweeping breeze and smoke from grassfires are all that greet his senses.

A drop of water on a calm surface is how he describes it later

 *** _COME_ ***

A tingling chime forcefully pierces the storm of activity around him, a beckoning voice and at the same time not. It is as the soft tinkling of wind-chimes.

Turning his head in a wide survey of the camp still yields nothing except confusing the Librarian's companions.

"Are you well, Lorekeeper?"

Solomon glances at the two before listening once more, focusing his psychic abilities on the chime. It rang louder this time. Which meant it was of the warp as Solomon surmised.

"There is something calling to me…calling to me as a psyker." Solomon replied, eyes narrowing

Judah's muscles stiffened under his armor "How so?"

"I cannot put it into words, but it feels very…very calm, unlike the Warp I am used to grappling with." Solomon turns towards the distant valley edge, the chime growing ever-so-slightly. "Intriguing to say the least."

"I would advise caution." Lysippus peers ahead of the Librarian "This could be of… _sinister_ origins."

"And you think I wouldn't know this?"

The Sergeant is taken aback for a moment before noticing a wry grin "Brother-Sergeant Lysippus I have witnessed the powers some of our more-" Solomon pauses, expression darkening "- _sinister_ adversaries and do not believe this to be their work, and if it is to be very sloppy in my own opinion."

"What course of action would you have us take now?" Lysippus intones "A phenomenon such as this should be investigated."

Solomon raises a hand to his chin in thought, his eyes steadily wandering towards the burning camp "You came here on a Rhino, no?"

A stone wall looms in front of Solomon and the rest of his brothers. The Librarian presses his hand against the weathered stone as his mind reaches out. His expression is of the utmost serenity and certainty.

Solomon closes his eyes and _reaches out_

"It is here."

The marines and Champion behind him are by contrast puzzled. But before any could query what the Librarian meant, Solomon's power springs to life. With an exertion of psychic effort, a great rectangular slab of stone is outlined by numerous spider web cracks forming in the rock.

A simple _tug_ and the slab plummets to earth. On the other side of the slab is a thick sheet of metal gears and wiring, revealing the false door for what it was. Not even bothering to wait for the dust to settle, Solomon presses on.

"Come, this has been the second most interesting thing I have seen all day." Pausing to look back at the false door and the momentarily stunned Champion.

"What was the first"?

"Witnessing Captain Immanuel knock the head off the Warboss like the cork from a bottle."

He smiles at the puzzled personal vox clicks of the Tactical Marines and forges onward as the telltale stomping of boots on ancient steel follows his own.

The large corridor was surprisingly pristine given its apparent age. Well-shaped metal lined the passage in unadorned simplicity that stretched onward into a black portal. Dust lay piled in corners near sturdy struts reaching up to the hewn rock. It was more than wide enough to fit three Astartes shoulder-to-shoulder with a floor strong enough to not buckle under the weight of their armor. Autosenses and psychic prowess led the Astartes deeper into the darkened corridor. All the while the chime grew in intensity.

And then stopped

Solomon **jerked** back in surprise even as he probed out for the psychic beacon. Three such sweeps in as many breaths confirmed his fears, face darkening.

"It is gone."

The Marines behind him cease their advance and go as still as the rocks. The Axe mag-locked to his belt comes undone in a shower of arcing energy.

"Prepare your weapons."

The sounds of bolters primed, flamers ignited, and plasma weapons humming to life filled the corridor. The advance's previous light-heartedness promptly evaporated, the Astartes now moving with calculated purpose behind it. Eventually coming to an archway, the corridor blossomed out into a great chamber. Roving lights danced across ancient dust-laden air.

The true scope of the gargantuan chamber was laid bare by the meticulous teams. Grey forms rose from the floor in layered circles marked by railings. Cogitator terminals lined many sides of these raised platforms that were obviously meant to be staffed by dozens of people. Machines of indeterminate function and great tables coated in dust obscured any sense of what this place had once been. Tracing a line around the outer perimeter the teams move in as one.

"It appears my fears were unfounded, fortunately enough" Solomon lit a fulminous torch in his gauntlet to illuminate the byzantine equipment encircling them. "Perhaps a more thorough search will- "

 ** _*HERE*_**

Solomon's eyes become pinpricks in milliseconds

The chime, now more a keening bell toll blares forth from a singular point among the dust, such is its power that the debris is thrown up in a grey torrent. Nearly a dozen heads snap to attention in surprise towards the small cloud. Solomon pays them no heed.

Flowing past all of them he comes to the singular point that the psychic beacon seared into his mind with such force to manifest in realspace. Eyes searching frantically focused on a single point among the detritus. Seizing an object between his armored fingers he cradles it in his palms. Eyes wide and expression bordering on reverence Solomon turns towards his companions.

"Lorekeeper, by the Emperor!" Judah is taken aback at the frenetic nature of the Librarian "What have you found?!"

Cradling his newfound treasure in one gauntlet Solomon proffers it to the Champion, eyes still wide in rapturous discovery.

"A watch!"

…

"What?"

-x-

He pulls himself from the writhing sea

It is done

He is truly at rest for the first time in a long time

He has expended a great deal of his true power, of which he has precious little

But that does not worry him, for the man is content

He has engineered his world's final victory

No matter the cost, no matter what may come, the darkness festering shall be felled one day soon enough.

Remnant will be free

Ozpin sighs in his chair as his presence on this world fully returns to him. Reassuming the persona of Headmaster, he looks over the files present on the clockwork desk. The teams for this semester, and potential candidates for…his inner circle. One file stands out among the forms, flagged because of three of its four members'…quirks.

STRQ

 **Hello All!**

 **If you are reading this then you have stumbled upon my very first story. I like Warhammer 40k and RWBY… in case you haven't guessed. Since I'm new I may tend to make mistakes or let my enthusiasm override my common sense. As such I would like some constructive criticism about my writing structure, formatting, or any other errors you see. Some things in here I have left intentionally open ended and will not spoil but if others are unclear please feel free to ask.**


	2. Chapter 1

Memory and Fate

Chapter 1: Distress and Arrival

" _Am I ready to die for my Emperor? Perhaps not, traitor, but I am very much ready to kill for him." -Malchus, 3_ _rd_ _Captain, Dereon Primus_

Chapter 1 Part 1: A New Course

-x-

Solomon places the quill down next to the inkwell in a sulk of trivial frustration, parchment stained with crossed out sentences and semi-formed ideas constituting half a standard days' worth of progress. Sighing in dissatisfaction at himself, the Librarian rises from his baroque throne, dress robes fluttering in the incense-laden air. Turning around brings the Epistolary face-to-face with the Librarium of the Battle Barge _Sinai_. Starting down a great set of metal steps, Solomon descends to the seventh level of the complex.

At the heart of most Fortress-Monasteries and Battle Barges of the Adeptus Astartes, lay the vast repositories of knowledge known as the Librarium. Within are the collected records of every deed ever done by the Chapter as well as more hazardous items of mystic lore. At the epicenter is a chamber filled with trophies taken from both xenos and heretical adversaries, a practice which causes no end of chafing among the Ecclesiarchs.

The Ashen Heralds are no different in this practice, yet what they do with this knowledge is very much so. For every Librarium owned is almost completely open for every Brother, the rank and file Neophytes and Scouts allowed almost as much access as the upper echelons of the Chapter's commanders. Aside from the innermost confines reserved for the Lorekeepers and most revered artifacts, all are welcome to learn of the history of the Chapter.

" _Those who do not learn from their past are condemned to repeat it, even more so within our brotherhood"_

The mystical cadence of Loremaster Herodotus filters into Solomon's memory, the very first day he had lain eyes upon the great Librarium at Shekinah. While not as expansive as that small hive of parchment and data-slates, the _Sinai_ was the third eldest ship in the entire fleet.

A thick, central supporting pillar protrudes up out of the floor and upsurges ten stories high towards the distant ceiling. Carved with intricate stonework up to the sixth level, the inordinately thick pillar shows the continuing march of history as a procession depicting seminal events the Battle Barge had taken part in. The Haloris Cleansings, the defeat of the Plague Sorcerer Pathis Rot-Lord, the Battle off the Durandelian asteroid belt, the Tragedy of the 262nd Ionian Infantries' betrayal, the Dereon Crusade. Every victory, defeat, watershed, and atrocity marched its way up the solid stone in bas-relief.

At its zenith rests an ancient copy of the Codex Astartes, not the oldest or the largest, but revered nonetheless. Ten circular layers each with ten antechambers beneath are filled to the brim with data-slates, great leather-bound tomes, carved mnemo-stones, works of art or relics held in illustrious stasis cases, and even hololithic projectors depicting images gleaned from battle recordings with accompanying oral testaments from those who had endured through them.

Cherubim, servitors, and Serf-scribes rush and buzz throughout the hundred branching antechambers carrying various fragments of knowledge for whatever task the other librarians have assigned. Battle-Brothers perusing the last words of great heroes or the tactics employed in fierce engagements made their presence known as well, deskbound at great tables with piled masses of lore surrounding them. However, what drew Solomon's eye was the sole Librarian wading through the coursing river of parchment and bodies.

Carrying a veritable bale of scrolls in the crook of one arm, his robes shuffling in a hurried fashion. Codicier Malachi Sintanus had not borne the title for long since his days as a Lexicanum. Only a decade prior was he elevated in a ceremony before the Loremaster himself and outfitted with his rudimentary psychic implants. Despite his ascension the former novice was taking his newfound responsibility in stride, or at least as much as he could muster.

He was encircled by a gaggle of scribes and Cherubim, many coalescing before being sent away on whatever errand the Librarium needed tending to. Papers, data-slates, and even the odd artifact brought for a close inspection changed hands in a frenetic pace as the Codicier belted out order after order. Solomon felt a little sorry for the youth, it seems that no matter how high one rose in their personal Brotherhood, the dreaded specter of paperwork would always hound them.

"Malachi, I see you are as industrious as ever" Solomon falls into step with the younger Librarian, Malachi not pausing in his orderings. After a long moment the olive-skinned Levantine deigned to gaze upon his superior.

"And I see you are as untroubled as usual, Epistolary." A Cherubim flew away with a roll of faded scrolls in its minuscule fingers "Tell me, how goes writing your magnum opus?" the sarcasm present in the phrase 'magnum opus' is almost palpable.

Sparing a sidelong glance at the Codicier, the Epistolary sighs in defeat "Alright I deserved that…not very well if you must ask."

A scribe brings a data-slate up as far as her arms can reach, the younger Librarian marking off a digital signature "And the fact you have deigned to seek me out for anything other than attending to your duties implies you wish to examine… **it** again."

Raising a hand melodramatically to his chest, Solomon does a mock bow "As always Malachi, you have cut through the skeins of fate to the heart of the issue" Then the cheerful demeanor plunges and re-ascends in an instant, sparks dancing ever-so-slightly from the stormy eyes, his voice a rumbling whisper "But a little more respect is due of one's superiors, boy, even if their observations are accurate."

" _ **I have my comicalities, but disrespect me once more at your own peril."**_

The psychic missive and accompanying blanch of the Codicier's aura assures Solomon that the message has been duly received. Excusing the few remaining Serfs, Malachi veers toward another set of stairs down to the sixth level. Into one of the great antechambers lies a sealed metal door painted with an orange stripe. Security doors across the Librarium detained those artifacts not enough of a hazard to be housed in the Librarius, yet were either not safe enough or too misunderstood to be openly accessed.

"Forgive me my earlier impertinence Solomon, but I have to ask, what do you think will have changed?'

"Nothing, probably"

Malachi blinks twice at the plain response "Then why- "

"Because I believe I was the one to find it for a reason." Solomon responds with a ponderous visage, Malachi's brow furrowing in concern "It sat there undisturbed for millennia, and it just so happens that **I** was the first psyker it reached out to-?" The Epistolary sucked in a calming lungful "-I…delved into the Emperor's Tarot with the Loremaster on my last visit to Shekinah."

Malachi's eyebrows shot up

"The Emperor drawn right side up, The Shattered World, and finally…the Great Eye." Leaning against the wall near the security door, Solomon glances over at the intrigued Librarian "Hope, discovery and warp travel; a war against the forces of the Archenemy, yet the central divination eludes me in its connotations."

"You think yourself predestined for something?" Malachi intones, leaning against the opposite side of the wall

"Perhaps…although providence is known as quite the capricious thing, no?" Silence stretches on for the next few moments as both Librarians ruminate. Malachi breaks the stillness with a small wave of a hand towards the security door. Nodding in accord, Solomon makes his way over to a panel on the left side of the large entrance.

An identical panel is bolted onto the wall near Malachi. The panels are squares with giant handprints inset, signifying their status as reserved for Astartes. Placing both of their hands into the recessed prints activates a humming chime. After a few moments of whirring light and inscrutable technological sound the door slides open.

"A group of Scouts is scheduled for their lessons and I must collect the precise tomes, I will be on my way now." Malachi steps away with a slight inclination of the head before returning to the main Librarium pathways.

Solomon mumbles out a half-hearted acknowledgment, already striding into the chamber. Flipping a switch brings the intense lights of several lumen-globes to bear. A collection of low lying cases, for an Astartes at least, are arranged several rows some meters deep. Solomon proceeds through the central row to observe the recovered artifacts.

Chrome-plated canisters of varying sizes branded with marques of an inscrutable dead language fill many of the covered tables, sealed behind thick transparisteel plates. In others are archaic weapons of some kind. Pistols resembling an old auto-type composed of some unidentified alloy, half-assembled, along with blades made of comparable materials take up one entire row. Coming to one of the cases, Solomon opens a metal flap and punches in a five-digit code. With a hiss of air, the case is unsealed. The canister Solomon has chosen to inspect is about as tall and as wide as his armored boot.

The top is sealed with a clear transparisteel-like substance. Within is housed several kilos of a sandy red powder that microscopy has shown to have a crystalline appearance. Other powders of several different colors fill similarly shaped canisters. In some of the thinner containers rest large and complete crystals that appear to be the similar substances based on color and texture. However, all the examples held in storage whether powdered or not are utterly inert.

"It's almost comical that something such as this could drive the Techmarines up the wall."

Neither fire or electricity, pressure or acid, had resulted in any kind of conventional reaction. Chemical analysis raised more questions than answers when it seemed that it **had** no apparent chemical structure, simply pure…matter, for lack of a better word. It had been the first time he had seen the 4th's head artificers so completely vexed, almost apoplectic in hindsight. It was then that the Librarians had a crack at it.

What was found had been truly surprising

The crystals were psycho-reactive, to a certain degree. Channeling their power through the crystals drew out a low hum alongside a slight glow that only psykers could perceive. Despite this accomplishment, it was as far as the Librarians had gotten. Beyond some psycho-vibrational currents running through the crystals the mystery remained. Placing the canister back and sealing the case, Solomon looked to the far wall and a lone pedestal.

It was confined in a double-sealed case consisting of six-digit code alongside biometric scanners. A stasis field hummed inside, all particles within suspended in time until deactivation. Entering the code and submitting a sample of his DNA to the sensors opens that case in a whir of tiny gears and dissipating energy. The human fist sized pocket watch lied on a plush pillow.

It was truly a marvelous piece of crafted art. The millennia of disregard did not seem to have left a single mark on the object, and it shone as if it had been polished just yesterday. Carved into the steely gray outer surface, inlaid with white gold, was a complex symbol made up of several gears.

His unarmored thumb pressed against an almost invisibly discreet clasp, and the watch flipped open. Inside was a master crafted chronometer powered by dozens of miniscule gears. Alongside a beautifully hand-crafted physical clock face was a smaller digital display. But the most fascinating aspect of the watch was the crystal at the center of the clockwork. Shining with bright enigmatic flashes of light, it was the apparent power source for the ancient timepiece. This crystal, unlike the others, was fully psycho-reactive

The telltale signature of whatever had called to him was still imprinted upon the watch ever-so-slightly even after all those years ago.

"Who are you?"

Solomon's query received no reply as the Librarian beheld the bauble in his hands.

" _Esteemed Epistolary!"_ A psychic blurb slipped its way into Solomon's focus. The voice was still young and unsure of itself, the hallmark of a Lexicanum. _"The Captains have called a full council and request your presence."_

Solomon sighs and places the watch back in stasis, _**"very well Nathaniel, tell them I shall be there shortly."**_

"They also wish for you to collect Champion Judah on the way, he is performing an induction now."

 _ **"I will, thank you Nathaniel."**_ Making to leave the chamber, Solomon takes on last wistful look at the timepiece before sealing the door once again.

-x-

The initiate kneels in the center of the chamber, clad in nothing but a grey robe concealing a freshly formed black mass. The black mass was pockmarked with numerous holes from which metal plugs protruded. Less than a week before, he had undergone the final surgeries to receive both the black carapace and the progenoid glands, the gene-seed which allows for the creation of new Space Marines.

His eyes are set upon the ground, he is at peace. Around him swirls wafting clouds of incense and candle smoke that wreathe around him like a crown. A lone circle of light is all that separates him from the unnaturally darkened portion of the chamber. Not a sound can be heard.

The measured steps of an armored form wades through the void and reaches his transhuman ears.

Out of instinct the initiate tenses, his hearts beat ever so slightly faster. Fear and excitement pervade the prospective Astartes for a moment before the training drilled and indoctrinated into him reasserts itself. The footsteps nearly reach him before sharply turning to walk a circle around the supplicant initiate. Around and around the footsteps unhurriedly circle the initiate. It is on the fourth such pass that the footsteps finally abate.

The silence has returned once again. It is somehow deafening now. Time seems to fall away for the initiate until a singularly powerful voice breaches the veil.

"Speak your name"

The voice is solemn yet carries a weight of authority that threatens to crush the young initiate's spirit outright. Yet the initiate is calm once again and this time there is no surprise or hesitation.

A reply devoid of fear returns the query "Philetus, my Lord."

"And why do you believe you are here, Philetus?"

"To become a full Battle-Brother and serve the Chapter with honor"

"No"

The curt retort nearly breaks the initiate's composure but the training kicks in as intended

"You are here to be judged, and should I find you wanting, you shall never leave this room alive. I will not insult you by questioning your loyalty, the trials have seen to that."

The footsteps start up again, creeping just outside the edge of the initiate's form

"One question, no more no less, will I ask of you" The footsteps pause "And only one truthful answer shall see you from this chamber with your head held high-or without it if you fail." The figure leans in "Are you prepared?"

"Yes"

The unsheathing of a great blade echoes throughout the chamber, the Champion now looms over him like a great war-titan

"Are you prepared to **suffer** for the Imperium and this Chapter?"

Philetus's back stiffens at the portentous yet somehow far-away tone the Champion now takes with him

"Philetus, are you prepared to die? Horribly? Roaring in agony as the horrors of this galaxy unveil themselves?"

"Are you prepared to be torn to shreds by Dark Eldar as their malefic weapons show you pain you cannot comprehend?"

"Are you prepared to see your Brothers in arms fall, betrayed by those whose allegiances you had never questioned?"

"Are you prepared for the mind-shattering reality that is the Archenemy of Mankind toying with your soul like a mortal child's doll?"

"And finally, are you prepared to die unremembered, deeds forgotten by a thankless Imperium and only known to a thousand of your chosen brethren in the halls of Shekinah"?

Philetus and the Champion now came face-to-helmet for the first time. The initiate gazes deep into the vermillion lenses and even without glancing the eyes themselves he could just about make out the truly gaunt expression lying on the centuries old face. Philetus lets out a breath of air he didn't know he had been holding in. He gazes inward at himself, and then back to the leering helm of the champion before finally steeling his nerves.

"Yes"

The answer comes out with a sense of certainty and serenity that precludes all doubts of its sincerity. The Champion stands upright, parchment adornments quavering in the smoke and incense. He raises the sword.

Philetus closes his eyes in supplication, bowing his head. Yet there is no sense of failure in the expression on his face, merely a serene mask of acceptance. A whistle through the air signals the blade's final approach.

…

He opens his eyes seconds after the mighty power blade would have surely ended his life. Before him the Champion holds the blade in both hands, tip on the stone below.

"Fear is human, _confronting_ that fear is what makes us more than human." Judah bows his head to the kneeling Astartes "You are ready."

"Indeed, he is." came a reply from the darkness

The Champion inclines his head into the darkness, the light from lumen globes and auto-torches filtering back in. The chamber is revealed as the light finally reaches its apex. A grand cathedral surrounds them.

Pillars depicting figures of graceful and haunting beauty surround them, skull faced angels back to back, each holding a flaming lantern that burnt a regal blue. A great depiction of an armored figure adorned with a concealing shroud was carved and sat at the front of the chamber, surrounded by hundreds of candles. Towering above even that statue was an enormous icon of the Emperor triumphant atop a hill of daemons. There were no benches or resting places within the chambers' vast confines, a Space Marine must stand before his Emperor's gaze with pride, not stoop as a burdened servant.

Across the towering walls were mighty stained-glass windows depicting great victories of both the Chapter and the Imperium. On the walls however were far darker murals of the cleansing of cultists, and the annihilation of Traitor Marine warbands by burning angelic figures. Lamentations of hate pervaded these numerous murals, each espousing vile insult towards a patron god, daemon, or certain traitors. Beneath the beauty of the Cathedral lay undercurrents of an inextinguishable fury.

The chamber was empty of all but the two Brothers, except for one other individual. His armor was a muted, dusty black contrasted by the haunting scowl of a bone-white skull helmet. While other Brothers in the Chapter had seals and scrolls aplenty, his scripture held an air of palpable solemnity. A tome every Marine knew carried the names of the dead who had served in the 4th was chained to the left pauldron. Other purity seals and scrolls attached carried the names of many other martyrs the Chapter had fought with over the centuries.

Chaplain Orestes was not just a record-keeper, he was an icon of inspiration and righteous fury. Across his armor ran painted flames ringed with inscriptions reviling every single aspect about the Archenemy, engraved figures of Traitors writhed in tormented horror among flames. Two blazing torches rose from the backpack, somewhat muted now, but in battle they would glow like newborn stars. His Crozius Arcanum was a snarling skull-faced gargoyle with bat-like wings, eyes as inset orange jewels. Nearby to the altar he stood at was a mobile armor rack holding a set of polished Aquila war-plate.

A rough yet poetic intonation, like that of a great pipe organ, sounds forth from behind the forbidding helm, "Come here, Philetus, and take your oath." Philetus rises reverently from his supplication and makes his way to the altar beneath the shrouded figure. Bowing his head to the Chaplain, the skull-faced Marine begins a recitation.

"Philetus, you who have been chosen to join the brotherhood that is the Ashen Heralds-" The Crozius is held before Philetus, its snarling gargoyle caressing the crown of his head "-Do you accept all the rights and charges that our ancient brotherhood entails?"

"I do"

"Do you swear to honor the Emperor, protect His Imperium, and fight as one of His Angels of Death?"

"I swear"

"Do you swear to bring death and cleansing flame to all who have turned from His light?"

"I swear"

"Do you swear to uphold the sacred duties of this Chapter, preserve its history, and honor your forefathers?"

"I swear" the Crozius leaves his head

"Look at me"

Philetus raises his head and gazes straight into eyes like burning Phosphex

" **Serve the Emperor"**  
"For He is our father"  
 **"But He is no god"**  
"He is the greatest of men"  
 **"Hate the traitor"**  
"For they have tainted His vision"  
 **"The Heresy has not ended"**  
"Until the last Traitor lives no more"

The Chaplain turns and beckons behind the altar for a moment. Two Serf-scribes heft a massive tome toward the two Astartes, its cover an intricate depiction of the Chapter's heraldry. The two place a portable lectern on the ground before opening the great tome with speed and grace practiced over a life of servitude to their transhuman masters. Eventually they come to a blank space in the tome.

"Sign your name." Philetus is handed an ornate auto-quill.

A few swift strokes later and the tome closes with a weighty *thwap*. Bowing, the Serfs step back into the darkness. Judah gazes back towards his newfound Brother and inclines his head.

"Sergeant Olus will have need of you, your skill with a blade even as a Scout was impressive."

Philetus bows his head "I am honored, Champion."

Judah inclines his head with a touch more reverence "Go well, and Philetus - "

The newly anointed Brother bows his head in thanks "-good luck"

The hopeful expression set on Philetus's face nearly brings a smile to the Champion's.

"Brother Philetus, you shall bring your new armor to the Techmarines for your ceremonial arming before your induction into Olu's squad." Philetus, still basking in the Champion's words steps towards the mobile armor rack.

"Ah!" The harshly anointed Marine holds a hand up before the Brother can reach the armor "When I say **you** shall bring the armor to them, I should have been more specific."

The Chaplain makes his way towards the rack, and lowers the armor to the ground with a press of a button, hydraulics groaning.

"You are going to carry it to the Armorium."

Judah's last sight of Philetus is a nearly flabbergasted expression looking back from the Chaplain and to his new war-plate. Shaking his head in nostalgic mirth, Judah exits the cathedral proper. Stepping out into the grand corridor in front of the cathedral reveals a robed figure leaning against a wall.

"You know, the recruitment trials I've directed with that man are certainly brutal, but this is just cruel." the figure chuckles for a moment "They always assume that the Chaplain's approval means it's over." Already the sounds of creaking metal and grunts of exertion could be overheard as the cathedral disappears behind them.

"Compared to what Priam did to terrify inductees beforehand, Arrikain, I am quite agreeable." Judah retorts

The chuckle now becomes a full-bodied laugh "That word does not belong in the same sentence describing that Marine's pupil my friend."

"Hmph, He told me you were the most infuriating inductee he had ever met in all of his centuries, I'm starting to remember why."

"Ha-ha yes, I recall that well…although Chaplain Pontus breaking my arm when I tried to levitate my armor to the forge stands out more for me." The two share another laugh before Solomon notices the slight dip in Judah's mood. "Ah, I should let you know that a general council briefing has been called in the war-room and we are expected."

-x-

Solomon sits down at the large throne at the circular command table. Besides him is the still-armored Champion. Captains Malchus and Immanuel sit two seats ahead of them at the head of the table near a large window gazing out into the void. Company Chaplains and Techmarines, Apothecaries and Ancients take a seat at the many thrones available. The table is massive enough to cover half of the massive house-sized war room chamber and seat dozens more Astartes than are already present. In the center of the table is a patch of raised ground holding a massive hololithic projection system. Nearby, servitors fused into consoles maintain the data-flow of the war-room.

4th Captain Immanuel is the pinnacle stereotype of the duty-bound warriors Space Marines are portrayed as in almost every way. His dour, baldheaded features are marred by numerous scars and three service studs denoting centuries of hard-fought victories. A scar crosses deeply over his left eye, replaced by a red-lensed cybernetic replacement. Even in dress robes the Captain appears an unshakable bastion, towering a good foot over the rest of his brethren. Looking over the collection of Astartes before him, Immanuel observes the last few that trickle in.

Malchus of the 3rd is the previous Captain's opposite in nearly every way. He had nearly flawless skin in terms of scarring, along with a crop of thick brown hair cut into a short mohawk. Tattooed lines of script flowed across his scalp and towards the back of his head. There was a more energetic quality to him that only youth could provide, and he was one of the youngest here. But behind the façade of youth, the eyes hid a calculating vicious streak, he was not unblemished for lack of experience. The younger Captain filed through a data-slate before the last members of the council finally sat down.

Immanuel spoke first, voice hoarse and deep after a lifetime of barking commands and battle-cry "I call this briefing to order, in the name of the Emperor. "

" **In the name of the Father."** came the booming reply of all present. Captain Malchus toyed with the slate for a few more moments, pressing a button on the table. The hololithic projector whirred to life as it displayed a shaky image of a solar system, slowly stabilizing into a coherent picture.

Malchus's comparatively suave voice sounded out next. "Chapter Command has issued a commendation for our swift purges, the Sarelon system has received further pacification reinforcements from the Astra Militarum." The image of Sarelon's many Hives came into focus, showing an animated time lapse of a once-serious cult rebellion being ground to nothing. The 3rd and 4th Companies along with elements of the reserve Companies had cleansed most of the hives within mere hours. Immanuel nods in ascension, zooming back out to the solar scale.

"Now on to the second item on our agenda, we have received an unusual request of assistance from the Adeptus Mechanicus."

Malchus's relaxed visage faded into one of slight concern, working the controls of the hololithic projector. "Chapter Command routed us a message from Archmagos-Explorator Karina about the status of her excursion." A jerky image starts to come into focus "It is at the end, for this Magos is quite- "*sigh* "-forthcoming."

At this new revelation Solomon perked up, leaning inwards toward the table and drawing a side-eyed grunt from the elder Captain. Changing from the image of a solar system, a hologram of a robed Techpriest appeared shakily on the screen.

Countless mechadendrites protruded from the Archmagos, many ending in inscrutable devices as well as grasping appendages. Three quarters of her face were taken up by angular cybernetic replacements, a cluster of ocular lenses replacing her eye alongside rasping metallic mandibles. Fine red robes obscured the rest of her body, but the outlines underneath indicated substantial augmentation. Her voice was tinny and over-filtered through the Vox-speaker embedded in her throat.

"Astartes Designate: Ashen Heralds, greetings once again. It has been approximately twenty point zero-four standard years since our last contact on planet Designate: Verdas."

She spoke in short bursts of stilted Low Gothic, clearly unused to speaking in anything but Lingua Technis. "Decoded star-map proved extremely accurate with only a six-point nine percent error rate. Location within Segmentum Pacificus previously problematic for exploration. Nebulas shrouded warp-routes."

Karina's voice descended in pitch, several clicking noises sound forth "Alloys continually defies classification. Crystalline substance defies classification. Several Adepts driven to madness." The Archmagos's head jerks up, ocular lenses refocusing.

"Complication with fleet. Ship Designate: Eternal Quest on scheduled excursion route Sigma point nine ceased routine updates approximately two standard weeks ago. Attempts at reestablishing regular contact failed. Received distress signal alongside message. Contents of message…concerning."

The image of the Archmagos disappeared, replaced with a spectrogram. Jerky digital sounds can be overheard as the message slowly builds in pitch. Alarms blare in the background. The message was full of static interference alongside patches of dead air.

" _Magos Callidon transmitting*KSHHH* reached inner system in-possible signs of habitation *KSHHH* xenos attack-it was alive! *KSHHH* appeared out of nowhere- boarders detected on multiple decks-send aid-!"_

The message faded out in a growling mass of indecipherable sounds fused with static interference. The image of the spectrograph faded once more into that of the Archmagos.

"Primary purpose of message: alert Astartes regarding possible hostile xenos incursion. Secondary purpose: request retrieval or secure salvage site of Eternal Quest. Message cease, may the Omnissiah bless you." As the hololithic image faded out the chamber descended into light whispers for a moment before Malchus spoke once again.

"While the Chapter does not take orders from the Mechanicus, the descriptions given in the message are quite concerning." Malchus scanned the faces of those assembled, many nodded in unanimity "The mentions of 'living ships' is noteworthy, it could mean we are dealing with some new xenos threat; furthermore, time is of the essence and we are the closest battle-ready Imperial elements."

Immanuel looks to his Brother-Captain and nods in affirmation. "As such, Chapter command has ordered our fleet to follow the route taken by the Eternal Quest to its last known position." Malchus then alters his gaze towards the lone Epistolary present, a long-winded sigh issuing forth. "It appears we **will** be playing the part of the Explorer after all, Lorekeeper."

Solomon merely smirks

"Indeed"

-x-

Chapter 1 Part 2: Boarders

In the moments leading to a ship's exit from the warp, realspace itself physically ruptures. It bulges outwards in a bubble of reality that is then slowly pushed aside by the incoming vessel.

Then like all bubbles, it eventually bursts

The _Sinai_ and its accompanying escorts spew forth from a roiling purplish maelstrom, lightning arcing off the outer surface of the Gellar Fields. The stabilized hole in the fabric of reality seals itself shut moments later with a sickening crack, the sound somehow audible even in hard vacuum. Moments later, great plasma engine thrusters propel the assembled craft forward through the void and towards the inner system.

The bridge is a hive of activity in the immediate aftermath of the Warp transition. In front of the command throne is a lowered area consisting of over a dozen rows of terminals. Legless servitors, appendages shuffling with machine-like efficiency, are fused to great banks of data cogitators. Serfs, whether arms-men or bridge crew scan the various screens for any encroaching objects or potential threats. A scant few Astartes man key stations in command pulpits, directing the actions of their bondsmen. All the activity on the bridge is overseen by the gaunt figure plugged into his massive command throne.

Elhanan is an exceedingly old Marine, pushing over eight hundred years. What little hair he has left is bleach-white in coloration. His skin crisscrossed with deep and noticeable wrinkles that not even the noble vitality of the Astartes can halt. No longer able to fight, Elhanan is permanently melded to the command throne, wires and medical equipment tracing a course through his highly cyberized body. Dozens of plugs are socketed into his skull, his eyes long ago replaced with a multitude of lensed oculi. Yet this matters little to the ancient Astartes.

For most of his many centuries Elhanan has been the Shipmaster of the _Sinai._ Plucked out of his company by the will of his long-dead predecessor and mentor, this Battle Barge has become the sole focus of the ancient Astartes. Many say that the two are one in the same after so long wired to one another.

With tactical data filtering in from the Mind-to-Ship link provided by the throne, his antediluvian yet somewhat mechanical declaration echoes through the chamber.

"Primary Augury sweep completed, system mapping in progress." Several hours later, the elder Marine's eyes twitch wildly as new data floods into his brain.

"Two outer Gas Giant class worlds, four rocky planets in inner system separated from Gas Giants by Asteroid Belt…Wait…" The connection feed goes wild as the Augur arrays detect an anomaly. "Signal and signature detected matching Explorator vessel Eternal Quest at one and a half Terran AUs from current position, raising engine power by forty percent, estimated travel time…two and a half standard weeks." The blueish glow of the engines shifts to more white coloration as the flotilla hurtles towards the inner system.

-x-

"This is not very heartening."

The Mechanicus Explorator Vessel had been roughly sheared off at the bow, the front section slowly rotating sideways in relation to the main hulk of the ship. Off in the distance, a field of irregular asteroids slowly tumbled in the void, some bearing telltale signs of recent macrocannon impact. Besides the bow, there seemed to be no outward signs of damage whatsoever along the length of the hull. Its engines were lifeless, few if any lights whatsoever could be seen onboard.

"Still no reply?" Immanuel inclined his head down at the Techmarine working the communications array.

"Nothing Brother-Captain, only the automated distress signal."

"Then send in the Boarding Squads."

-x-

The metal turns an intense red for a singular moment before an armored prow demolishes its way inside. The craft punctures deep into the outer hull of the Eternal Quest, leaving a trail of destruction in its' wake. Screaming superheated metal crumples like tissue paper. Massive retro-rockets burn white hot to slow the craft down, until it finally skids to a halt. Anti-Gravitic plates spring to life, the Mechanicus hangar spacious enough for the craft to hover inside. After sweeping its' prow's mounted weapons across the disorganized floor of the hangar, the dual-pronged craft settles down.

Not even a second afterwards ten heavily armed Marines burst out of the Caestus Assault Ram, its Magna-Melta still glowing. Forming a perimeter with drilled efficiency, three quickly break off and redeploy down a long side corridor. No ingress is unaccounted for, no blind corner is unchecked, the laser-like focus of the Astartes sweeps the imposing chamber for contacts.

The Ashen Heralds have always been a fleet-based Chapter, their ships just as much their dwellings as instruments of war. Being fleet-based puts taxing new requirements on top of the standard duties of the Adeptus Astartes. While following the Codex Astartes' core tenets is paramount, sometimes necessity outweighs tradition.

The Boarding Squad is such a deviation developed after centuries of boarding and counter-boarding operations. Every member of most companies is trained to be a part of one of these specialist units should the need arise. Members of Tactical Squads, Assault Squads, and even some Devastator Marines are pulled from the line and merged under an experienced Sergeant into a single ten-man unit. They are then trained as a second squad away from their previous squads.

Each Marine not holding a weapon requiring two hands is given a Boarding Shield, a type of power shield used by the ancient Astartes Legions. Its power field is not as potent as a Storm Shield, yet its protective capabilities are superb in close combat boarding operations.

The Marines are also given weapons designed especially for close combat such as flamers, bolters, chainswords, even storm bolters. Along with weapons designed to pierce through bulkheads including lascutters and Melta weaponry, Grav-guns in some scenarios. Echoing the ancient Breacher Siege Squads from the Great Crusade, they are trained for the hellishly cramped conditions boarding an enemy vessel required.

A light turns green within the helmet's HUD.

"Auspex sweep completed, no signs of movement."

A modulated voice hailed over the vox "This is Techmarine Uriah, I have reached the emergency hangar controls, attempting power reset"

"Acknowledged" the vox clicks to a second channel "This is Olus to Sinai, hangar clear."

" _Understood, second phase in process, proceed with caution."_

"Understood"

Sergeant Olus scans the mangled hangar's airless, pitch-black interior. Paneling and loose wires are apparent everywhere, holes and burns from the more exotic weapons fielded by the Mechanicus Skitarii decorate much of the walls. The lack of any signals or life signs from inside are now made less mysterious.

The hangar is a veritable lake of dried blood, machine oil, and broken corpses. Skitarii and servitors litter the floor in mangled heaps of flesh and bent metal. Claw marks score the floors just as much as they have cleaved apart the fallen bodies surrounding the Boarding Squad. Shuttlecraft and other Mechanicus void capable ships sit un-deployed in mechanical cradles or are otherwise marred with weapons fire and claw marks. Olus notices a problem almost immediately.

"Where are the bodies?"

"Which bodies?"

The voice is young, the recruit that had joined his regular Assault Squad a scant few weeks ago.

"These are not mere Naval Arms-men, they were Skitarii, where are the bodies of the attackers?"

Gazing around the hangar, the Squad sees no non-Mechanicus corpses.

A pall of tensioned silence descends over the squad as a further scan of their area reveals the observation of their Sergeant to be true. Other than the corpses and claw marks, the enemy has left nothing, not even blood. Before Olus can ponder on what this means, the great cog-toothed doors to the hangar slide open noiselessly in the vacuum, sucking what little atmosphere was left out into the void. Uriah voxes over a brief report indicating success. Dim emergency lights flickering on provide little illumination, fortunately a non-issue to technology and Astartes eyes.

Through the now open doors, a Thunderhawk glides in for a landing among the debris. The front ramp drops open and disgorges thirty more Marines alongside grimacing servo-skulls. Putting aside this troubling quandary the Sergeant moves to rendezvous with the rest of the Boarding Squads.

-x-

The path to the bridge was strewn with even more dismembered corpses and wrecked Skitarii. At one point the oil became so thick that it went up to where their sabatons met their greaves. Yet the observation made in the hangar was repeated wherever the Boarding squad went. No corpses of the enemies that had boarded this ship were encountered. What was more troubling was the lack of contact.

Crew Quarters, Enginarium, Macrocannon Deck, all had been swept by the other squads. Skull probes making their way throughout the derelict's less important and narrower sections only revealed more of the same. They had only confirmed the lack of enemy dead, making Olus even more concerned at the fate of this vessel. Even if they had retrieved their dead, would they go as far to cleanse the whole vessel of their blood? Why leave the ship after they had secured it? The multitude of unknowns aside, progress had been ahead of projected timetables.

The corridor the squad now traverses grows steadily more choked up with the bodies of the defenders. In front of an ornate door inscribed with many icons of the Machine God was the last stand of an unfortunate group of Skitarii. Barricades and auto turrets seemed to be of no use to the cyborgs holding this chokepoint. Although, the amount of burns from weapons fire up and down the corridors leading to the door combined with the lack of corpses obfuscated a true scope of what had happened.

"It seems the lascutters will be unnecessary."

The door had been twisted inward, a multitude of claw marks marring the once pristine surface. A few well-placed kicks from power armored feet gradually widened the entrance enough for two Astartes to enter in at once. Spreading into and throughout the bridge, the squad came face to face with another anomaly.

Several dead servitors and Skitarii littered the bridge's floor, but there were far fewer corpses here than in other areas of the ship. The bridge was eerily empty of any other signs of previous habitation. Empty seats, even an empty command throne still trailing connecting wires only exacerbated the mystery. Fanning out into the various rows of terminals and crew stations, the Boarding Squad searched for any more physical clues as to what had transpired here, yet found nothing.

"Uriah, try to access the ship's main cogitator logs and see if you can't divine something about the nature of this enemy."

"At once." The Techmarine went to work on the Mechanicus command throne, plugging in several mechadendrite tendrils tipped with data input spikes. As the tech specialist interfaces with the machine spirits of the vessel, Olus decided to properly examine one of the corpses.

Despite the advanced Skitarii War-Plate adorning its once functioning body, many deep lacerations and bite wounds stab down into the vital components that not even these cyborgs could live without. Its Galvanic Rifle lays hacked to pieces to the side, barrel still charred from multiple repeated firings. Olus pulls apart the cleaved flesh and metal, gazing at the edges and markings left by the claws. No matter the strength of the defenders it seemed they were pulled down by sheer weight of numbers. Only questions seemed to linger on this derelict.

 _I would assume those at fault were those infernal Genestealers that infested Space hulks, but where is their blood, their bodies? Why butcher the crew and then leave? What were they aft-_ Olus's head shoots up, scanning the room twice over. His voice comes out hushed.

"The Techpriests"

Olus gets on the vox instantly "To all squads, report any sightings of Techpriest dead". Minutes pass.

 _"Beta reporting, a few in the crew quarters, even then only lower Adepts."_

 _"Gamma reporting, none on the gun deck."_

 _"Delta reporting, there are several in the Enginarium but far less than is expected of the Mechanicus."_

A grim realization comes over the scattered squads as they realize the true scope of their findings. Olus turns to the rest of his assemble Marines, "Whatever assaulted this ship is not only strong enough to overpower a Mechanicus crew, but also intelligent enough to see the Techpriests as an asset."

"Sergeant, I've found something." Uriah unplugs himself from the command console "While the emergency power is making data retrieval problematic, I was able to retrieve security logs off local drives, footage is corrupted unfortunately."

"What does it say?"

"Apparently while doing a routine survey of the Asteroid Belt, they were struck by a large one."

"The damage to the bow?"

"Yes" Uriah continues "The first reports of boarders came soon afterwards."

Olus was puzzled, "Where is the asteroid's debris? We saw nothing from the outside."

The green light inside all the Marine's helmets turn orange. Within microseconds, shields and weapons are readied for action. Asupexes show movement near their position. The lights quickly turn to red as the contacts register as *UNKNOWN* on HUDs across the squad. They record at the maximum range of fifty meters yet the corridors behind them are clear.

"Squad Alpha reporting contacts closing." His voice is cold and focused

Signals pinging from the other squads report more of the same. Then the skull probes go silent one by one.

"Sinai, we have contact."

They were at thirty meters now, and yet the corridor remained barren. Unfortunately, one does not outwit a Space Marine easily. Charging up towards the contacts, Olus barks out an order "Xenos in the ducts, heavy flamer!"

Storming into the corridor through the bent door, a Marine armed with the weapon spews a torrent of baleful promethium into the circulation vents on the ceiling. Like pulling the pin from a frag grenade, the battle Olus just knew was coming begins. From the grated cover, dark figures fall trailing blazing fire and roaring in agony. The incandescent beasts illuminate the once darkened hallways with their burning forms. Then their brethren come tumbling out of the vents.

Pitch-black hairless bodies that appear covered in viscous, amorphous machine oil. Pallid misshapen plates of bone covering eyeless faces, and an unhuman needle-fanged maw. Long ambiguously humanoid arms ending in five razor sharp claws, mirrored by thick legs giving them a vaguely bipedal gait. The closest beast makes to roar out a challenge.

Its head is blown to pieces by a bolt round before it could suck in the air

A hail of rounds from both bolters and other specialized weapons spew forth from behind the imposing tower shields' firing ports of the Boarding Squad. The blips of red then turn into a solid wall, roars echoing throughout the superstructure of the Explorator Vessel. Olus idly takes in the fact that the bodies of the slain begin to dissolve for an iota of time before he leads a charge through the wrecked carcasses of the beasts.

"Fighting retreat back to the hangar!"

All slackness the lack of contact may have brought on is wiped away as the boarders position themselves around and behind their Sergeant. Formations drilled into them by years of training and years of war come to life in an instant as a plethora of the clawed beasts burst from more vents around them.

Marines equipped with boarding shields form up in a rough rectangular mass charging through the corridors, watchful on all sides. They defend the brothers in the center of the formation deprived of the shields due to their weaponry. Beasts rush in from every hallway, from every conceivable orifice the vessel to assail the Boarding Squad, yet they are hard-pressed to find purchase. Many beasts thinking themselves clever by attacking from above are swatted from the air by melee weapons or blasted apart by heavy weapons.

They attack in waves, a group of creatures assail the shield wall, all the while their numbers fall to Storm Bolters while charging down the corridors and even those that reach the wall are harried by Chainswords. Those that reach the shields are thrusted back, giving those brothers with heavy flamers and Multi-Meltas an opening to fill a corridor with promethium or fusion-powered thermal death. Grav-guns collapse and contort the Plasteel walls of hallways as well they pulp the organs of the swarming xenos.

Uriah sounds off, Combi-Flamer searing the face off an ambitious xenos, Omnissian power axe bisecting another

"Five hundred meters to hangar."

The squad passes a large emergency blast door. The rearmost brother puts his fist through a panel and throws down the security lever. Screaming metal and sliding gears send the sectional dividing door to the floor. Two brothers unsling lascutters, sealing the door to the floor to alleviate the pressure. Within moments they are on the move once again, the tide of xenos already crashing against the door. Unfortunately, by the sound of popping hatches and roars deeper within the ship, this section is also infested.

The squad does not slow down for an instant. The motionless corpses around them give a dark example about the weight of numbers outdoing advanced technology. But they are Astartes, not Skitarii. They do not give these beasts a chance.

Xenos are blown to pieces by mass-reactive shells. Perforated with searing plasma, or set alight by belching Flamers. They are sliced to bits by chainswords and torn apart by Olu's power fist. The Boarding Squads carve a path out and through the tide of flesh being thrown at them, enduring the few pitiful swipes that make it past the shields. The ceramite and plasteel masterwork that is Power Armor leaves rending slashes that hacked through Skitarii as gouges that barely penetrate the outer layer.

A fresh wave of xenos arises from the front, this time with a larger best in its center. Even more misshapen as its oily brethren, it stands a good head over its kin. Pale bone-like armor runs in jagged splotches over what appear to be vital areas to the creature. Charging through its lesser brethren, it screams towards the line It proves to be more threating than the mass of lower xenos surrounding it.

It takes two blows of the power fist to fell it

Olus clears the way forward, the trampled and dissipating remains fading into view and under the other onrushing xenos. The staccato of heavy bolter fire can now be heard from the chambers ahead. The telltale whoosh of superheated air that could only be the melta weapon attached to the Ram gives an even more precise indication. From a large opening ahead, flashes of light strobe, revealing menacing shadows of clawed xenos rushing past the door.

Olus announces the squad's presence by batting aside three of the creatures with his power fist, sending their shattered forms sailing into the air. In front of the Thunderhawk's traversing bolters, a shield wall of reserve defenders held the xenos at bay. Carving a path through the beasts, Olus's squad fluidly joins the line, adding their own weapons fire. Standing shoulder to shoulder with another Sergeant, Olus scans over the assembled Marines. The reports of the numerous swiveling bolters are so close that vox is the only way to communicate.

Lysippus is laying down a withering hail of fire with his bolt-pistol, power sword severing heads and dismembering limbs "What of the status of Gamma and Delta squads?" Olus asks while casually cratering the skull of an ambitious xenos.

"Gamma is caught behind a blast door but is now cutting through." Lysippus tosses a grenade into the horde, the explosion perforating dozens with shrapnel "The passages into the Enginarium are narrow and many; Delta will take time" The shield wall continues laying down fire in the shade of the Thunderhawk, shadows from their weapons fire rising to the massive ceiling.

Over upturned shuttlecraft and mangled frames of the former crew the xenos continue their assault. Their bodies continuously dissolve into clouds of black miasma trampled over by a seemingly endless horde of their compatriots. Gamma squad bursts from one opening into the hangar, one Marine sending a pair of frag grenades down the corridor. The meaty thump and accompanying body parts indicate success.

Scant minutes later Delta squad emerges from another entrance, suitably more battered than the rest. One Marine's leg is perforated with slashes, trailing bright red blood and leaning against another brother. Yet even injured his bolter still pumps out an accurate fusillade of shells. The squad segues into the line. Marines lay down cover fire even as they back into the Thunderhawk, the Magna-Melta of the Assault Ram melting entire lines of xenos.

While the beasts still bray and fling themselves towards the emplaced Astartes, their numbers steadily drop off. What was once a flood turns into a trickle as the hangar falls steadily more silent. A few stragglers are picked off and the attack ceases in its entirety. Smoke still swirling from the barrels of weaponry, the Marines choose not to let this opportunity go to waste. Filing back into their respective transports the Techmarines blast off out of the hangar and through the void.

"Sinai, extraction successful, minimal casualties, no losses."

" _Acknowledged, return to bay thirteen and deliver wounded, report for debriefing in- "_

The communication director pauses as a warning klaxon splits through the open channel.

" _Belay previous orders, return to re-arm and move to combat alert level 1, void combat imminent."_

-x-

Solomon clutches a hand to his breast, a gnawing emptiness clawing at his very heart. The scent of smoke and deep, primal fury assails his mind. The bow of the derelict shudders

-x-

It is awake

It is hungry

It slept for so long but finally had purpose

That was good

 **It heard**

 **It obeyed**

 **It suffered**

It slept

More came

It had new purpose

That was good

They hurt it

It hates

 **It hates**

-x-

Due to ancient treaties made in the aftermath of the Horus Heresy, which limited the Space Marines to vessels whose primary role was that of transport and suppression designed to facilitate planetary assault. Only the smallest of vessels would be permitted to act exclusively as warships, ensuring the Space Marines would never present a threat to the Imperial Navy.

As such, Space Marines do not typically seek out naval engagements. But for the fleet-based chapters, such engagements are often unavoidable. Yet even as the bridge crew assembled into ready positions and as the void shields were raised, Elhanan was unbothered in his throne. He was smiling, it wasn't every day he got to fire his guns on anything other than a planet.

And the monstrosity before him was certainly a curious foe.

The shattered bow of the Explorator Vessel had begun gushing a viscous tar-like substance as blood flows from an open wound. Yet even as it flowed it seemed to behave like a gaseous, roiling cloud. As the entity coalesced into being the elder Marine could only grin.

Three pairs of crimson red eyes lined the head of the oblong squid-like creature's body. Great plates of jagged, bone-white armor grew into a demented crest. Long black tendrils numbering in the dozens writhed and twisted with unknown intent. The maw of the beast yawned open into a chasm of stalagmitic teeth, roaring silently in the vacuum. Its tendrils pulsed with fell energy, propelling the monstrosity forward. It was nearly as massive as a Strike Cruiser and could probably snap one of their escorts in half.

It has already lost.

You do not engage a Space Marine vessel in close range combat

"Firing Bombardment Cannons."

Bombardment cannons are dorsal-mounted linear accelerators designed for planetary bombardment. The Magma bombs they use are several times more powerful than standard Navy torpedoes, and are launched at significantly higher speed. In short, a salvo of weaponry designed to punch through a planet's atmosphere are fired at what is basically point-blank range in naval terms.

The beast does not take it well

The salvo reaches the oblong black mass within minutes. It seems that whatever this thing was good for, being fast was not one of them. Fusion warheads punch through the oily outer layer almost pathetically easy and detonate deep in its' guts. It resembles a horrid caricature of a balloon for scant seconds before fire overcomes its entire being. Whatever pantomimic semblance it has for internal organs or blood are flash-boiled by the sheer sunburst of energy detonating within.

When the fire dies down, there is barely anything left. Great charred husks of oily flush slough off the blazing void-beast like great scabs. Its body has been completely cored through as only the lower half still twitches in futile motions. The beast gradually falls still. The thick black fog that once made the beast now unmakes it with little fanfare, dissipating into the void.

"Oh…I was wrong."

Elhanan's withered voice sounds out a truly dissatisfied lament. Several Marines turn towards the ancient Shipmaster.

"I expected it to take at least two salvoes."

-x-

 **Codex**

 **Recruitment: There are three ways the Ashen Heralds bolster their numbers, the first is the Inquisition approved feudal world of Levantus. The second is by a special class of Chapter Serfs who fight for the right to ascend to the level of their masters. The third and least common is taking a tithe or even chosen humans from the worlds the Ashen Herald's campaigns bring them to.**

 **Lorekeeper: Ashen Heralds term for Librarian. Lorekeepers are much more involved with the day-to-day running of the chapter. Along with assisting in recruitment trials, they teach history and tactics to Neophytes, preparing them for the duty the Chapter has assigned to themselves. Almost all Lorekeepers are recruited from Levantus for their psychic talents to be properly managed, and many keep their last names.**

 **A/N: Any constructive criticism is appreciated.  
**


	3. Chapter 2

Memory and Fate

Chapter 2: Corrosion

" _It seems we have found brothers with which we share a common resolve, yet their inflexible unbelief in His divinity vexes me" – Black Templars Sword-Brother Hademar, the Purging of Bultis IV_

-x-

The audio recording jolts to life, a panicked and modulated voice bursting forth. Its tone is tinny and high-pitched as if spoken through a broken comm-bead.

" _This is Magos Persis Callidon, to whomever may find this message, heed my words and stay away! It was_ _ **alive**_ _! The asteroid lives, it_ _ **charged**_ _at the ship! We are flooded with a tide of glistening fangs and razor claws! They are overwhelming my crew! They-". Dead silence reigns. Exchanges of harried Lingua Technis are scarcely audible before the Magos's voice returns, vacant of belief._

" _They are sabotaging the ship"_

 _*KRSSHK*_

Static plays out in the last few seconds of the recording before it clicks finished.

The council chambers are once again occupied by the commanding officers of their respective branches aboard the _Sinai_. This time there is no empty seat, every throne occupied, and even chosen lower brothers stand at attention surrounding the slab. The senior Techmarine representative in his bulky servo-harness, the attached Chaplains of the companies arrayed in ardent panoplies. Sergeants and Apothecaries, and Veterans alike pack the chamber. The lights re-illuminate the area as the Astartes take in what they have heard. Stern glances are exchanged between the seated Marines.

The harsh countenance of Immanuel gazes at the Astartes assembled before him. The unexpected naval action had obligated the equipping of his hulking war-plate. The bastion out of his armor has become an unassailable fortress in stature with it. Singular organic eye hard-set, he speaks. "The Boarding Squads we have sent back into the vessel have reported no further contact with the beasts." Immanuel's tone sours

"But they have confirmed the claims of sabotage cited in the Magos's log. Power lines severed, cogitator banks smashed, numerous critical components all impaired in such ways that simple happenstance is almost ludicrous. Whatever these beasts were, they were either much sharper than they appeared to be or…there was something directing their actions against the Explorators."

"Is it genuinely true that there are no physical remains of these creatures?" an Apothecary queries. From the more ornate features on his armor, one could tell his rank as the Master of the _Sinai's_ Apothecarion.

"Indeed Abiel, the beasts simply vanished into vapor upon death, even their blood, the same as that betentacled monstrosity we cored with the Magma bombs."

A concerned yet knowing murmur went up among the attendees. Raising his hands, the Captain silences those before him. His eyes then drift towards a certain silently brooding Lorekeeper, face downcast. Solomon meets his Captain's gaze, eyes full of pondered dread. The whole of the briefing shifts their focus to the Epistolary.

"No, they are not daemons, but…" Solomon stands up to properly address the room "…They are touched by the Warp in some small way. I undoubtedly felt that bloated monstrosities' presence from within the ship. As did my fellows in the Librarium"

"We seem to be overlooking something my brothers." Malchus's comparatively restless voice greets the attendees as he rises from his throne. "Where are the Techpriests? Why and for whom were they taken?"

Solomon's eyes close, he lets out a breath. "The sabotage, the deliberate absence of many Techpriest dead…something or someone wanted them, alive or not I do not know. The theory of an absent, commanding third party seems to be the only explanation."

"How so?" Malchus inquires

"The beasts, what casualties did they inflict upon the boarding teams?"

Immanuel responds promptly. "Brother Parmenus is in the Apothecarion for lacerations to his knee joint, they buckled a section of floor and swarmed over him. Other than that, gouges and light damage to armor plates."

"Is that all?"

The 4th Captain's face scrunches up for an instance before receding. "Yes, what are you inferring?"

Solomon paces over to a large holo-pict display. "If you would, play some of the combat footage."

While unsure of the Librarian's point, Malchus presses several command keys into controls embedded in the table. Green-tinted helmet footage comes on screen, of the first squad boarding the Assault Ram. Malchus peruses through the footage until the first signs of battle, muting the sound. The eyeless forms of the clawed horrors charge at the squads in a frenzied mob, even trampling over one another in the case of some of the larger pack-beasts. Yet simple ambush tactics and weight of numbers are no match for Astartes training, armor, and sheer firepower.

"Look at their movements, how they fight." Solomon gestures at the screen. "Beyond simple pack tactics and animalistic fury, I have not seen any indication that these beasts could identify and sabotage vital components while simultaneously assaulting a crew of trained Skitarii and battle-servitors. Something had to **command** and **guide** them to act in such a way. Something that also most undoubtedly absconded with our absent Techpriests."

Immanuel looked on at the silently roaring monstrosities on the screen. "And what do you believe this commanding force to be?"

Solomon shrugs candidly. "Depending on what these creatures are, it could be anything. Biomancy creations bound to the will of a rogue psyker? Some terrible form of ancient warfare? Without a way to properly study these creatures it will be difficult to ascertain what they are and where they come from."

"So, in short, we know nothing of our newfound enemies, where or how they have taken the Techpriests. Or if they are even alive at this point. And there is some undoubtedly more formidable and intelligent abomination lurking out there that can coordinate and command these things." Malchus looks almost deadpan with barely contained annoyance.

"Most probably."

"…I suddenly yearn for the simplicity of cleansing Sarelon cultists."

Solomon believes he can hear a few muted, rueful chuckles at the Captain's declaration. It was at this point that the singular Techmarine chose to speak up. His voice was modulated yet a deep baritone more human than machine. Ehud was the master of the Battle Barge's forge, in all matters technical a great source of wisdom.

"If I may, Captains." Immanuel nods with a much more exasperated Malchus following suit. "If searching for the whereabouts of these Explorators and what abducted them is now our goal- "

"Apparently it is." Malchus grunts, receiving a knowing, cold stare from the elder Captain.

"-Then perhaps we should finish the survey of the solar system's rocky planets and scan for any anomalies. By Shipmaster Elhanan's scans and the data recovered from their ship, at least one planet in-system is highly probable to be habitable."

"Normally, Ehud." Malchus begins "I'd give our 'friends' in the Mechanicus my utmost commiserations and tell them to send their own fleet, **but-** "Malchus raises a finger. "-the potential presence of the Arch-foe is a threat to us all no matter its remoteness." a murmur of agreement rings throughout the chamber. Immanuel clears his throat

"What data is available on the inner system planets?"

Ehud's helmet audibly whirrs with data. "From what we have gathered, the fourth planet sits just inside the zone of prime habitability while the two innermost ones are fairly close to the system's star. The third planet is massed very near to the Terran average and sits in a similar orbit."

Immanuel's chuff of laughter is as the scraping of sandpaper. "Third stone from the sun, I'll take that as our first good omen." Immanuel gazes out at the assemblage. "Now hear this!" His voice, as rough as it is, carries the weight of command on an iron pedestal.

"My brothers, we sail into uncharted space and have encountered an enemy we do not fully comprehend." Immanuel claps a fist to his armored chest. "But we Space Marines are made for this!" in perfect sync, a multitude of metallic thumps ring across the chamber. "We were made to go into the dark corners of this galaxy, and to bring the light."

"We will not let these monstrosities fester like a plague in the dark corners of the void. They can bleed, and they can die. We will find them. We will find whatever made them. We will hunt them down. And we will drive them to oblivion. For Chapter and Emperor!"

" **For Chapter and Emperor!"**

-x-

Solomon kneads his brows, leaning on the table in front of his personal throne. The Librarium is silent and subdued now, with the threat of these creatures all brothers are on combat alert. What was once a bustling hub of study has become the solemn incense-filled repository that wouldn't look out of place in any other chapter. The yet half-completed work in front of the Epistolary seems to mock his current state.

"You left the meeting in quite the hurry."

He leans over to behold the Champion, arms crossed as he made his way towards the troubled Lorekeeper. "I felt I personally had little more to contribute on the matter."

"I've known you long enough to tell when you're being indolent from when something has genuinely unnerved you. These creatures died by our hands fairly quickly yet…"

Solomon scrapes the throne against the floor and stands "Astartes are trained and indoctrinated to have no fear, or as little as rationally possible, yes?"

"Correct, but- "

"Even the Lorekeepers with our touch of the Warp" Solomon approaches Judah with darkened eyes "Yet I felt pure **FEAR** the moment that beast emerged. It was not my fear of it but the concentrated emotion itself, a rippling wave through the sea of the Empyrean itself! Nathaniel and Moab nearly fainted from the psychic shock, Malachi fared little better."

"Fear, you say?" Judah's voice becomes low, a grave and spiteful tone creeping into his words "Servants of the pla-?"

"No"

Solomon arcs a stream of lightning between his digits, a nearly-steady breath escaping him. "Thank the Emperor, no. But whatever manner of beast and from wherever they come from…" Solomon clenches his fist in a tightly wound shower of blue-tinted sparks.

"They were most assuredly born of suffering"

-x-

The world of Medusa had at one point been a very important world to humanity, from what scraps the Mechanicus was able to scrounge up in broken-down archives. Its depths were mined tirelessly and greedily by hordes of robotic workers. A great orbital ring for docking and other esoteric purposes encircled the planet like the great Ring of Iron on the Red Planet. Even through the Age of Strife the legends of Medusa were remembered by the Mechanicus, and the planet had been sought out in the Great Crusade with much fervor.

When a Mechanicus scout ship had finally made it to the system the planet resided in, what they found was certainly bleak and surprising. The whole range of the system's inner core was littered with the debris of shattered voidships, fogs of dust, and malfunctioning defense systems. The great rings had fallen into disrepair, pieces dropping to the planet below in not-unsubstantial collisions.

Tectonic instability caused by the mining had left volcanic eruptions and lava flows an almost daily occurrence. Yet humanity somehow still endured on the surface below through all the hardship it had borne. The state of the planet before him had reminded Malchus of the fabled homeworld of the Iron Hands.

But the planet he gazed at through the viewing pane was almost assuredly dead.

Its thin atmosphere was a sickly gray composed of mostly carbon and sulfur dioxide. There were suggestions of a once hospitable atmosphere in trace gases, but they were an incredibly low minority. The surface followed the color scheme, a pale greenish-grey torn apart by sprawling dust cyclones. Deserts of wind-blown ash and detritus composed massive dune seas that blanketed the cold world. Countless low-lying salt-flats that were once oceans provide some of the only brightness on the blasted surface.

Canyon-sized boreholes pockmarked the surface while great remnants of strip mines snaked across the polluted ground. A massive space elevator that once rose from a singular point on the surface was now collapsed into a kilometers-long heap. Steely forms of what might have been buildings encircled the base of the once proud structure. Roiling clouds of metallic debris choked the satellite orbit of the planet in a steel cage. It looked as if color itself was scoured from the world.

"Final augury sweep completed."

The Shipmaster's hoary voice broke Malchus out of his trance. "There are no signs of life whatsoever on this world?"

"None, not even microbial."

Malchus is silent for a moment. "Are there any signs of activity at all?" The lenses of the Shipmaster whirr.

"The interference from the storms may be producing false-positives, but there are anomalies surrounding the collapsed elevator pedestal and accompanying structures."

"Thank you, Elhanan."

Malchus turns away from the ancient Marine, pacing forward to his comrade Captain at the front viewing window. Immanuel's back is turned, arms clasped behind him as he gazes out the transparisteel. The elder Marine is completely still. Malchus reaches him, finding him stone-faced.

"I am tired of this, Malchus."

His tone is not the commanding thunder many Marines are used to, but the voice of a man who has seen the horrors of the galaxy and come out scarred. "I wonder how these mortals died? Were they brought low by those creatures? By themselves? Or did the hand of fate deign to conspire in a way none could have foreseen?"

"I…find that some things shouldn't be pondered on." Malchus replies after a long moment. "When all the potential answers are so bleak, it seems better to just focus on the here and now." Immanuel pauses to reflect on the younger Captain's words.

"Hmph" Immanuel snorts. "Look at me, seeking advice and trying to soothe my melancholy from someone a century and a half younger."

"Sometimes a fresh perspective on things is just what you old-breed need."

Immanuel's half-smile becomes a perturbed scowl, the mirror opposite of Malchus's humorful smirk. Yet their eyes meet in a coalescence of reciprocated humor. Sighing, the 4th Captain gazes back at the planet. "Even though our sensors are most certainly being baffled, the base of that spire contains the only standing structures we can detect from orbit. However, this time I will not send in any of my company into another potential ambush unprepared, at least not without me."

-x-

The howling wind screamed and moaned through jagged outcroppings of partially eroded rock. Dust blown from mountain sized dunes formed a solid gray wall curtailing visibility from more than five meters or so. Rusted metallic debris littered the barren, lifeless ground in hundredfold shattered pieces of a dead civilization. Then through the roiling cyclone came deep rumblings accompanied by belching black smoke and the crushing of half-decayed refuse.

An armored squadron of boxy vehicles painted in Chapter colors, adorned with inscriptions and fluttering parchment charge through the haze. There are seven in all, tracks and advanced suspension plowing through the rust-laden grit. Ramming spike prows and dozer blades attached to the front-end batter away any debris too big to simply trample but not big enough to avoid completely. Remote controlled bolters swivel as thermal sensors pierce the dust storm. The Deimos Rhinos bear their cargo through the toxic atmosphere at top speed.

Twisted black shapes eventually rise out of the ground several kilometers from their position. In the distance they appear as gnarled stalagmites or ancient trees like those of the forests of Levantus. An ancient ferrocrete highway wide enough for several Predators is continuously revealed and disappeared by the shifting grey, cracking even more under heavy treads as the APCs push towards the structures. Some have fallen over, plowing into other structures and blocking off the crumbling roads. The storm slackens slightly, revealing a sight that while impressive from orbit, was nearly breathtaking planet side.

The awesome sight of the fallen space elevator dominates much of the skyline. The base still reaches several hundred meters into the dust-choked sky, battered and broken but still standing after countless millennia. A needle-like structure as thick as several hive hab-blocks rises several kilometers before a jagged rent.

Its fallen pieces cut through the structures like a knife, whole sections completely flattened underneath the monstrous pillar. In the lead Command Rhino, a burst of communications signal is transmitted and received. From behind the venerable transports comes a screech that slices through the haunting ambience of the dust. Lithe streamlined forms rush overhead at breakneck pace.

Three Land Speeder Tempests with heavy anti-gravity engines working hard to pierce the storm barrel towards the ring of structures surrounding the elevator. The enclosed cockpits provide protection from the scourging winds, the craft acting more like gunships than scout craft. The Rhinos in turn slow their advance by halving their speed. Eventually coming to a stop on the outskirts of the ring of buildings. Several minutes pass in silence, the only sound the dust roiling around them. The lead Rhino finally receives a transmission, slight static dancing along the edges.

*KSSHHH*

" _Captain, Ikkadus here, we have detected no active thermal readings from the site, but we are picking up vox interference."_

"From what?"

" _Unknown, but most of it appears to be emanating nearer to the central elevator structure."_

"Circle around and provide overwatch, the storm's interference may make communication unreliable."

" _Understood, Tempest Squadron out."_

The armored vehicles increase their speed, beginning to enter the formerly inhabited area proper. From within the Rhinos, holo-pict screens display the ruined structures in all their bowing rest captured by onboard sensors and cameras. Most appeared to be dilapidated warehouses of some sort, chatter among the armored squadron surmised the likely connection to the elevator. The wide road was littered with shattered debris and dust, but the formidable vehicles barely slowed. Pressing a button, the screen went blank as the rough Captain turned towards his Rhino's occupants.

His Champion, Epistolary, Chief field Apothecary Methus, and Techmarine Uriah all accompanied him. He almost regretted leaving Silas behind but was amused when his old friend quote 'preferred not to get the banner filthy.' The Captain also privately doubted anything resembling an honorable battle would take place here.

"Do you believe me paranoid bringing all of this for a foray into a slag heap?"

Solomon pipes up. "If my memory serves me correct. We pulled the Shekinah out of a so-called slag heap." The Captain's unamused expression says all the meaning the Epistolary needs. "I jest, but those creatures warrant such caution if they are indeed not entirely spaceborne"

"True…that reminds me." Immanuel turns to regard the Techmarine. "We may in fact find archeotech of some sort, I trust you are capable in this regard?"

"Ehud has taught me well the secrets kept by the artificers. If we do find such precious technology, then I will gladly divine its purposes. He says Machine Spirits are quite fond of me"

"Captain" the driver voxes into the back compartment "We have movement!"

The convoy comes to a screeching halt within seconds. Hatches burst open and squads of Astartes pour out. Tactical and Devastator squads take up position near fallen ferrocrete support pillars that once held up a now collapsed building's front edifice. Assault Squads deprived of their bulky jump packs lay in anticipation behind the Rhinos.

The transports themselves are no pushovers either, bolters remotely piloted from within swivel towards a distant form emerging from the dust. Pintle-mounted weapons clack and buzz to life as Astartes gunners take aim. Through the blankets of dust, a dark shape reveals itself. It is not something any among them were expecting

The sounds of battered servos and fried circuits, of grinding metal and rust meet the superhuman ears of the Astartes even over the wind. A rusty form staggers into the sightlines of the assembled near-company strength Marines. It is vaguely quadrupedal in form like that of a mastiff combined with a scorpion.

Plates of horribly degraded metal barely cover exposed mechanical innards, one of its segmented legs is nearly sheared off with only a few connective servo-tendons holding it in place. Two sets of ocular sensors, with some eyes dim, swivel gratingly in half corroded sockets. A metallic tail holding a roll of dangling cable sways back and forth.

The scorpion-esque machine has cargo. Its flat-topped body can still support a large amount of weight despite all its degradation. Upon the flat top rests an assortment of perfectly cut stone cubes. Grey rocks perforated by veins of what appeared to be ore are stacked three high, bundled with frayed cables.

Well before it reaches the Marine's positions, the robot takes a sharp turn towards one of the warehouses. The large door is only opened halfway, yet still wide enough for the construct to trundle through. Clicking and latching sounds are audible for several minutes. The automaton emerges with an empty load and starts its way back up the road.

This time it has followers. Uriah stalks up behind the machine accompanied by a squad with weapons trained. Quickly flanking the transporter brings its oculi facing Uriah's knee plate, seemingly unaware of the new obstacle. It bumps into the Techmarine's armor and stops dead. Lenses whirr for a tense few seconds. Finally, the automaton swings its battered shell to the side and simply goes around Uriah. The assemblage silently watches it stagger back into the roiling dust.

" _The Machine Spirits are fond of you?"_

Immanuel's half incredulous, half amused vox hail breaks Uriah out of his stare. The Techmarine glances over at the warehouse the creature's cargo had apparently been deposited in. Already some squads stalked towards the entrance to peer into the darkened structure. Uriah joined them in but a few quick strides. Inside was something truly ominous.

Stacked from floor to stories-high ceiling were blocks of cut ore. Toward the rear of the warehouse the blocks were set in a neat wall with seams lining up nearly perfectly against one another. But the further one went forward, past the collapsed sorting machinery on distended electro-rails, the more haphazard the organization became. Blocks were dumped in piles wherever there was convenient space. A noticeable line was demarcated between these divergent styles, the stacked blocks were coated in layers of grey dust while the piles were less so. The Techmarine heard the approach of a large form.

Uriah glanced over at the 4th Captain. Uriah had always admired the craftwork that went into the intricate armor worn by the Chapter. The black, silver, and gold schemes contrasted sharply with the pallid aura of his surroundings. Rather than parchment or cloth like most of his brethren wore, Immanuel had chosen nothing but engravings and sculpt work. Litanies of deeds done in his Chapter's name, testaments of hate and revilement towards enemies, and simple devotions of loyalty covered every available surface of the gleaming ceramite. Behind his head and rising from the fusion backpack was a golden half-sun.

Resting at his side was a similarly engraved thunder hammer. Its pitch-black haft was coated in spiraling silver inscriptions and etchings. The steely gray sledgehammer-like head depicted a scene showing an Astartes breaking down the walls of a mighty fortress. Its power field hummed softly in standby mode, a subtle promise of barely contained power. The Techmarine was still staring when he realized he had been addressed. Uriah shook himself out of his distractions to answer his Captain.

"What does this mean?"

"It means that the denizens of this planet were not expecting whatever ended them." Uriah looked back down the route they had taken and noted the still-closed doors. Looking up towards the next warehouse, Uriah could barely make out a pile of cut stone in front. The screaming of the wind seemed to grow in pitch.

-x-

Something happened here

The deeper the transports plunged toward the center of the industrial complex, the more Solomon could feel that something was terribly wrong. It began subtly enough at first. They encountered only a scant few more of the loader automata in their journey, each more degraded than the last. Some were splayed out in death poses on the crumbling avenues covered in dust, crushed underneath loads of ore. Then they found more destroyed machines. And then still more.

Larger automata as massive as Marines arrayed in Terminator armor were strewn about in dull metallic piles. Their trunk like appendages were tipped with powerful claws and what appeared to be archaic projectile weaponry. What became a few became a dozen, then several dozen. Erosion had sullied much of the battlefield, but it was clear to the Astartes that these automata had been shot with energy weapons, perhaps two different groups had battled for some reason? Some were melted to the pavement while others were little more than individual parts.

Then the whispering started.

The swirling clouds seemed to quietly sing to the Marines a song none could understand. Half heard noises and muted calls from the white noise of vox static set many at ill-ease within their transports. Yet for Solomon, it was much clearer and utterly, utterly horrifying. Wails of the dead moaned and pleaded on the edge of scouring dust, shadows danced just outside his field of visibility, taunting him. The Lorekeeper had seen much horror from the forces of the Archenemy. He knew the powers they served and because of this he knew how terrible a secret this place must conceal. The dust storm grew with every meter they advanced.

"This place is scarred. It was once a battlefield, and something far worse. Whatever happened here was a long time ago yet feels as if it could have been yesterday. I have seen many dark things in my time, but this world is…I don't like this place. Something terrible happened… or is happening here and I don't like it."

Immanuel regarded the Lorekeeper with grave concern, glancing at the unsettled occupants of the Rhino. There was no humor in his voice, no spark of joviality. Suddenly, the Captain could feel the Rhino slow down, treads crumpling another mangled automaton. "Captain, we have reached the spire." The driver's voice was tense.

A great sturdy circular structure of ferrocrete as wide as a dozen Land Raiders made up the building the spire itself rose from. Hangar-like doors larger than Stormbirds yawned open into a black void. In between the surrounding structures and the spire pedestal was a great open plaza lined with roadways and tertiary outbuildings. The wind grew ever more vicious.

Automata half-covered by dust lay strewn across decaying barricades surrounding the circular building, seemingly arrayed defensively. Swirling dust still revealed the dulled yet very present scorch marks and projectile impacts peppering the surroundings. Automata of the same type seemed to be battling against one another for some unknown reason. The lack of bones or context only exacerbated the mystery. The trail of mechanical corpses continued until right before the great sliding doors of the spire pedestal itself.

The command retinue disembarks from the Rhino with practiced yet rigid haste before the massive entrance to the fallen elevator. The other APCs disgorge their cargo as well, forming a semicircle around the cavernous doors. With quick vox signals and hand gestures, Immanuel leads four squads towards the interior. Solomon visibly shudders with barely restrained revulsion.

"It feels as though a great wound was inflicted here and never truly healed."

The Marines advance in steady formation. Autosenses quickly adapt to the lower light conditions. The expansive floor of the structure was coated in a thick layer of dust deposited by the gale-winds outside. In massive heaps were shattered wrecks of automata piled high. However, near the center of the vast chamber is a curious sight.

A singular shaft of light pierces through the thick ceiling up towards the sky itself. Illuminated in the light, was a simple item. Upon a stone pillar was a small metallic bowl of some sort. Yet despite all of the dust flowing through the gaping hole, the bowl was unsullied.

Feet crunching through the thick grit and grime, the assembled squads slowly advance upon the altar-like structure. Solomon bade his brothers wait, before peering into the bowl. It was empty, yet appeared blackened by heat and smoke. Solomon reached out with his mind and body, fingers brushing against the rim-

 **CRUEL LAUGHTER AND ENDLESS SCREAMS. BOILING BLOOD AND MELTING FAT. A NEWBORN DARKNESS YEARNING FOR CHAOS AND SLAUGHTER AND FEAR.**

" _No!"_

Bolts of pure energy lance from his gauntlets in a panicked rage. The tainted vessel is utterly obliterated by the power of the battle-psyker. The shattered fragments vaporize into black smoke that seems to hiss with audible, organic aggravation. A bow wave of psychic force spreads through the room, buffeting the dust collected on the floor. It rises in a horrendous dark cloud revealing jagged, faded lines etched into the crumbling stone floor. Boiling blood and melting fat…

 _Ashes of the dead_

"GET OUT, GET OUT OF THIS ACCURSED PLACE RIGHT NOW!"

The wind's roars and shrieks magnify to unprecedented levels on the surface of the nameless dead world. From the great doors disciplined Marines charge through the cremated remains of countless dead like wraiths. The squads left to guard the Rhinos swivel guns to and fro trying to locate the now very audible laughter echoing around them within the wind. The ash swirls in a maelstrom encircling the Rhinos.

Then the automata **move**.

Bodies that had no right to support more weight than a feather rise from the ash in heaps of misshapen steel. Eyes glow to life with malefic red lenses. Chattering, corrupt binaric screams that nearly make Uriah's ears bleed sing forth from the machines. Solomon knows what the entities of the Warp are capable of, and he knows that such entities can hold sway over shells of metal as well.

At once the Astartes open fire on the unnatural constructs. Bolts, melta, and plasma blasts blow apart the murderous abominations. They return in kind with sputtering gasps of auto-fire and sizzling energy pulses that score the armor of several unlucky Marines. Rhino-mounted weaponry lights up the center of the approaching machines, yet buried beneath heaps of ash more automata rise.

Immanuel barks harried orders into his vox, chest constricting with cold dread. Judah's blade is a whirling black within the swirling ash, inhumanly steady and filled with a supremely boiling hatred. Retrieving a fallen brother blown back from the force of a laser bolt, Judah slices apart a machine seemingly held together by nothing at all. Raising his plasma gun, the Champion melts several more of the machines back into the grit. Solomon clutches his head, cruel and formless mirth dancing around the Marine. The laughter does not terrify him, no the voice does something far worse, for its puppets at least.

It **angers** him.

Crackling arcs of lightning dance across his entire body. His eyes become as a tempest, deep blue vortexes of pure energy hiss with promised retribution. A raging cyclone of electromagnetic energy spirals out from his form, reawakening millennia-long dead glow lamps that promptly burst into a million glass shards. The Librarian charges from out of the cover provided by the Rhinos into the center mass of automata, their ragged forms too slow to track his movement.

The wind now screams in agony as his psychic might challenges the taint of this world. Even the ash disintegrates under the sheer amount of power he is bringing to bear. Solomon cries in a crackling wordless voice of pure thunder, bringing the cyclone to a mighty apex before he detonates the Electro Pulse. Pure Warp-powered electric current lashes out in a shockwave rivaling the main guns on some battle tanks. The air itself is singed from the amount of power being pulled from the Warp into realspace.

Automata are simply disassembled, thrown backwards in a clattering pile of individual parts. Those closest are scorched into black char which joins the swirling ash in the air. Further still the automata shut down as even the malefic force puppeteering them cannot utilize the now fried circuits. The ash storm itself is blown away for meters in what could only be described as a shriek of pain. Then it all falls silent.

Solomon stands in the middle of the smoking ferrocrete, pants born of psychic exertion roll forth from him. The Lorekeeper turns around to face the surprised forms of his brothers.

"We need to leave."

The binaric groans of encroaching automata echo on the wind.

-x-

Weaving around collapsed structures, Ikkadus noses his Tempest down in a screeching power-dive towards the avenue below. His finger pulls back on a thick arming trigger. The assault cannon jutting from the nose of his craft spools its rotor before it lets loose a barrage of heavy caliber shells. To his left and right the sound is parroted back to him through the swirling clouds of ash.

Through his cockpit viewing pane Ikkadus witnesses the impact of the projectiles. Automata are blown to scraps either by the mass reactive standard rounds or cored by the interspersed Kraken Penetrator rounds. Seconds later, a line of Rhinos charges through the perforated machines. Mounted weapons swivel all around the transports, firing at anything that moves. The powerful ramjets thrust the Tempest back up to altitude at just under eighty meters.

The machines crawled out of the city in shambling hordes of faded steel. Malfunctioning armaments sputtering away with blasts of slugs or energy bolts scar and gouge the Rhinos. Some machines were so dilapidated that their armaments simply exploded. Ikkadus found that amusing, almost like Orks. An abrupt downdraft tries to make the Tempests budge, yet the wind is no match for the supercharged engines of the Land Speeders. The Tempest squadron commander could almost swear that the swirling storm itself had a will of its own, and was trying to down he and his brethren's craft.

 _From the reports the Captain had relayed, that may not be far off._

Nosing down once again, Ikkadus depresses a secondary trigger. Missiles scream forth from recessed firing ports embedded in the Speeder's hull. Joined with fire from his cohorts the projectiles detonate center mass. The horde simply evaporates under the assault. Automata ineffectively fire at the overhead craft, but their ruined joints and ill-maintained weapons do not even come close to landing a blow.

Target practice.

The machines drop in number with every meter the Astartes retreat from the city. Eventually the armored column breaches back out into the grey rust-strewn wasteland at top speed. The wind seems to rage as they do, the maelstrom of ash becoming a grey tornado of skin-flensing particles.

Then every Marine heard what had driven Solomon to such heights of rage. The amalgamated screams of a million-unknown dead, their ashes intermixed with the dust of a doomed and blighted world. Solomon's nose begins to bleed. Ikkadus nearly loses control of his Speeder. Judah clutches his sword and begins to pray.

Uriah pleads with the Machine Spirits to go faster

-x-

Magma bombs breach atmosphere and make planetfall within minutes of their firing from the Bombardment Cannons. The impact alone is enough to crumble foundations and uproot planetary fortresses. Their warheads then detonate a fraction of a second later, incinerating the dilapidated remains of the buildings with the force of burning suns.

Possessed machines sputter out their last moments of activation before the wave of fire reaches them, their shells empty once more. The lowly cargo automata still hauling ore for long-dead masters are flash-vaporized along with all their long overflowing warehouses. The elevator pedestal takes numerous hits before it collapses into a melting heap of ferrocrete and steel. The spire topples in on itself. A bloom of orange light consumes the rotten core of the lifeless world as all remnants of the dead civilization are scoured away.

Elhanan watches all of this impassively through his mechanical eyes, calculations and statistics already filtering in from the gun crews. He has seen worlds reduced to nothing more than molten balls of lava by the powers of Cyclonic Torpedoes. He has rained fire down onto fortresses on a hundred enemy-held worlds. Yet this grey rock has him feeling hollow. Like one was firing upon a tomb. But orders from both Captains are orders one follows. Then a blurb of data reaches his mind.

The Shipmaster's head jerks about as he processes a new development. The third planet was in range of long range sensors since their transit to the inner system, yet the condition of the dead world before him had relegated those scans to secondary routines. Parsing through the completed scans, Elhanan trips over his own integrated processes at the results. The veteran manages a smile with aged, cracked lips. His voice comes out in a wistful sigh.

"Third stone from the sun, a good omen indeed."

-x-

 **Codex:**

 **Techmarines: While still performing the same roles as with other chapters, the Artificers of the Ashen Heralds are unusually capable in their craft. Honored as part of the Chapter proper rather than ostracized, Techmarines of the Heralds oversee the ritual of affixing and engraving the many ornamentations endemic to the Chapter. They often act as intermediaries to foster good relations with the Mechanicus to secure certain parts the Chapter's venerably-stocked armory needs.**

 **Mechanicus Relations: The Ashen Heralds are known to have a cordial relationship with the Forge World Atar-Median. The origin of these close ties is unknown, but records appear to show millennia of cooperation.**

 **A/N: Any constructive criticism is appreciated.**

 **P.S. Yeah, I lied sorry. Remnant is up next for real this time.**


	4. Chapter 3

Memory and Fate

Chapter 3: Planetfall

" _He murdered our future, all that we had done fell as ashes into our hands. The poison eating into our brethren proved more horrific than any could have imagined." – The Nameless One_

-x-

 _ **Journal of Solomon Arrikain**_

 _485 M41, Battle Barge Sinai_

 _A phantasm like a thousand black needles has wormed its way into my heart. What foul ritual, what dark rites were performed with that charred vessel that such an imprint could be left behind? A derelict ship has brought us to a world consumed by the ravening hunger of some malefic force. These Warp-touched machines only further confirm my suspicions, though I wish that they did not, that the hand of the Arch-Foe is in play._

 _A deviant psyker lured by false promises? A daemon summoned by foul cultists? Why would some automata seemed to be on both sides of the battlefield? No answers, only questions for us it seems._

 _Judah is off to take out his rage in the practice cages again. I can understand his aversion to the daemonic, yet he takes it too far. I know he still blames himself for what happened with the Sorcerer. But there is a point where a grudge may yet fester in the noblest of hearts. Perhaps I doubt his resolve too much…_

 _Batsaikhan is in my thoughts recently, I wonder how the old Stormseer would have handled this situation. Does he yet fight on with the White Scars? If not, then I suppose I will have to continue the fury of the tempest in his stead. His advice always seemed to reveal its meaning to me when I needed it most. That saying of his, 'a grand mountain may yet bow to the winds of'-_

Solomon drops the pen as a shining pulse of energy washes over his witch-sight. Bundles of scrolls tumble to the floor. The wide-eyed Epistolary glances over at his Codicier, jaw agape at what only they could see. Slowly turning to face his superior, the shaken visage of Malachi works his jaw after a few unsure tries.

"I think this bears inquiry."

-x-

The woods are tranquil, no birds singing. No insects buzzing, nor any whooping yawps from myriad animals. During the day.

A grave omen.

A person bursts from the tree line into ground turned barren from controlled underbrush burns. Hopping from rock to rock over a wide sweeping river, he drops into a dead sprint on the other side. The river was deep yet slow, it would take time, but anything could cross if it was large and determined enough. He scarcely notices the fenced in crop fields protected by wooden watchtowers and palisades. Or the fact that those towers are now empty.

He overlooks the multitude of claw marks as well.

In the shadow of a small dark-colored bluff lays a large village on a hill, Black Crag. The community itself is nestled into a raised, slightly crescent shaped recession into the bluff. Protected from behind and partially from the sides by the eponymous rising peak. The river below provides a secondary layer of defense while also irrigating farmer's fields. The rest of the settlement is safeguarded by a thick perimeter wall. Fortifications hewn from mountain stone and hardwood centuries older than every inhabitant in the village provides a barrier both physical, and mental from the darkness outside.

Yet the timber and granite are blemished and beaten, splattered in some places with ominous dark stains baking in the midday sun. It will soon be put to the test once again. Twin warning bells had blared the moment he broke through the undergrowth, the sounds of pounding footsteps and murmuring voices trickled over the battlements. The large reinforced gates creak and groan open to receive the lone figure.

"Lucas, fucking hell, how many of them this time!?"

The gentleman himself is barely out of his twenties, yet the frontier lifestyle hardens many beyond their years. A short mop of black hair and light brown skin, both caked in dirt and sweat that clings to him like a second skin. Twisting white lines of paint run down one side of his face in great interwoven knots. He wears a mix of clothes both cobbled together from animal skins and a few factory-made articles. Across his back rests a rarer sight for the frontier, a mode-shifting weapon, in this case an articulated bow with an accompanying quiver.

"Watch Master Zaff, move everyone into the shelters and get the whole militia armed and ready to fight! I caught sight of their vanguard out there and we need everyone we can."

The gray-haired militia commander nods in grim concord, barking orders at men and women rushing towards the wall even as the two men follow close behind. Most are loading assault rifles and other firearms. Others carry crates of stacked ammunition. Some pray. In the end they all take their position on the heavyset walls of the frontier village. Several meters thick and reinforced dozens of times over the years, two flights of stairs are necessary to reach the ramparts.

Heavy Dust machine guns are set in circular parapets along spread out intervals. Armored turrets and firing ports enclosed these emplacements in circular shells of wood and steel. On the uncovered ramparts where many of the militia gather, a thick wooden roof is bolted down with heavy supports, set at a slight angle forward. On the face of the walls themselves are many dozens of vicious recurve barbs socketed in place. Any Grimm attempting to scale the walls were in for a nasty surprise.

However, the fortifications are not at all what they could, or should be. The machine gun's barrels are discolored from constant use, patches and welds prominent in most. The roof is pitted with holes of varying sizes indicating the attention of a particularly tenacious species of raven Grimm. Some of the anti-scaling spikes are either missing or cracked. To say nothing of the fatigued state of the defenders. There is only one advantage that many are tentatively hopeful for.

The wonder weapons.

The precious few they still had were wielded by some of the more experienced, and brave, militiamen. Even those hardened veterans are still unsure of their implements. Some appear almost like archaic long rifles that their forefathers had utilized, made from wood and done up in eccentric brass filigree.

The first test firing carried out on a curious Ursa proved the similarities stopped there when it **detonated** in a flash of electrical energy. Another kind was compact yet shredded an entire Beowolf pack in seconds, although it nearly broke the arm of its wielder. Some fired blasts of energy that set a King Taijitu on fire. Strange blades activated with a sickening buzz after much fumbling and close calls. Yet even with the discomfort they still cut through anything like a hot knife through butter. Though many were unsure of what they found, many saw it as nothing less than a blessing from above.

Then the Grimm came. Came in numbers.

And then the wonder weapons ran out of ammunition or stopped working.

Some killed their handlers.

"Lucas…the stores are holding but if this bullshit keeps up, we might have a serious problem on our hands." The weathered, mature face of the Watch Master looks out at the rustling of the trees in the distance.

He has a shaggy head of salt and pepper hair like the unkempt mane of a lion. Combat armor consisting of simple alloy plates alongside boiled leather adorns him. While the gun he carries is no modern Huntsman weapon, the wooden-stocked battle rifle was as worn yet just as sturdy as its wielder.

"And I doubt those Crown's Point dicks give a rat's ass, probably eager to loot the ruins, fucking sharks."

"One of our messages might have made it through." Zaff's expression is grimly hesitant.

"Maybe…" The not-so-distant howls of Beowolves sung out across the forest.

"Best case scenario, we deal with this until the Kingdom sends an actual hunter."

"To us, you already **are** one." Lucas's brow droops ever so lightly. "Fancy licenses don't help fend off a pack of Grimm."

Any further conversation is put on hold as the sound of pounding feet and braying beasts finally fills the air. He pulls up an arrow, ending in a sharp point glowing with the telltale shine of Dust. Ignoring the shouts and external sounds around him, the archer closes his eyes and steadies his breath. The Grimm tear through the tree line and into the gunsights of the defenders. Lucas knows from both training and experience what to expect. His eyes open.

It always begins with Beowolves

Fleet of foot and vastly outnumbering their brethren, these wolf-like Grimm are almost always the youngest and most aggressive. There is no method to their rage. They attack in massed waves in a disorganized onslaught across the waters, only kept in line by subtle jolts and snarls from bonier Alphas. Boarbatusks wade just behind them, snorting and squealing through the river muck. Ursai lumber behind the faster of their brethren, wobbling gait masking a physique of hardened muscle and plated bone. The odd Death Stalker chitters in with cackling mandibles and pincers. A flock of smaller Nevermore screeches and caws overhead, gradually beginning to dive earthward. He readies his arrow.

Lucas tunes all of this out as he concentrates on the larger Grimm. Already the thudding reports of machine guns and assault rifles fade to dull echoes. He sees the lines of Dust rounds scythe down numerous Beowolves still wading through the river, gouts of spray thrown up by the bullets. Flashes of esoteric energy immolate a group of particularly tenacious Grimm. Yet his gaze is drawn to the now trotting figure of a large Ursa Major. The archer draws back the string, torsion mechanisms whirring as the bow cocks back.

Calling upon the light of his soul into the arrow, a corona of hazy volatile energy permeates through the projectile. Moments later, Lucas releases the arrow. Arms made from finely wrought Dust alloy and surrounding advanced compression springs snap forward to impart their energy into the bow. Combined with Aura enhanced strength, the luminous projectile speeds from its rest almost as fast as a bullet. A flare of blazing light slices through the air to land squarely between the eyes of a very confused Ursa Major.

Its head explodes in a blinding flash of smoke and seared matter.

Lucas nocks another arrow.

Still, the Grimm come.

-x-

The Astartes had been striking at each other for well over a half-hour.

Training blades were clashing against each other as the two superhumans danced in circles of steel and muscle, a storm of sparking blows arcing out from their meetings. There were no pauses or hesitation, it was a dizzying tempo which only rose as both men adjusted to each other and reacted faster and faster to feints and gambits. They disengaged, blades scraping against one another.

Judah's training shield mirrored his own in shape and bulk, if not in its accompanying armament and power field. Its face was marred by dozens of slashes and rents torn by the slimmer blade of his adversary. Across from him and circling like a bird of prey, the armored yet helmet-less visage of the 3rd Company Champion Tobias dared him to come within reach of his implements. Pale-skinned and dark haired, a line of gothic tattoos running under his eyes.

Two falchions shorter than Judah's yet no less threatening was held in both hands, twirling between the armored digits. To his forearms were affixed smaller twin parrying bucklers, equally rent by gouges. His armor was similar enough in appearance to the Champion, only slight personal variations and divergent Company marks differentiating the two.

At an unseen signal, both Marines leapt at one another again. Tobias had speed and agility on his side to counter Judah's solid defensive style. Whirling his dueling blades in a series of crisscrossing slashes against and around the shield, he pushed the 4th Champion back. The larger shield absorbed the blows where it could but could not protect the rest of his body. Tobias favored the thousand cuts style of swordplay, equally effective in a duel as it was tearing a Traitor Marine apart.

However, Judah still had raw power and endurance on his side. He made the leaner Marine pay for his impatience. Trapping a blade between his armpit after feigning an opening, he shattered it. In the same motion he jerked to the side bringing Tobias skidding forward. The seemingly stationary training shield rocketed forward in an instant to smash into his face. Tobias toppled over backwards and fell to the floor.

"Trying to breach my defenses has never found you much purchase before, and if I have any say about it, never shall."

Tobias groaned as he picked himself up off the training mat. "Damn it all, I think you broke my nose again." Sickening cracks a moment later confirmed the fallen Champion's assertion. "If you removed that helmet of yours for once, you know this would have gone **very** differently, my friend."

"Those meal-plates you call combat shields could not even tickle a Snotling."

Tobias gave the helmeted Champion a deadpan look before bursting into a hearty laugh. "Hopefully I can be privileged enough to see your face again."

"Indeed… that oath fulfilled would make Priam's rest a bit more peaceful, for the both of us." Judah brushed his gauntlet against the inscribed surface of his helm. There was a tone of nostalgic bitterness laced into his voice. The Champions exited the practice cage and deposited their training instruments, now thoroughly battered lumps of metal. Tobias checked on the progress of his nose, Larraman cells already working to repair the damage.

"By the way Judah, I heard what transpired upon that dead planet." Tobias's jovial expression turns to one of pensive concern. "Warp-spirits of some sort possessing ancient machines or the like, are those that returned…well?" They passed into a large corridor filled with Serfs and servitors attending to their duties. Carved murals made the gargantuan walls come alive in a rainbow of paints and etchings. Incense burners filled the halls with a light mist of sweet-scented smoke.

"We all reported to the Chaplains and the Librarium afterwards and were cleared, the phenomena were more for appearances than actual power in retrospect. Although feeling even a hint of fear…" Judah remembers the conversation with a shaken Solomon. "Whatever happened in that ruin was unclean." Judah paused in his steps, voice cold. "I was glad to watch it burn."

"Aye, but do you think it has anything to do with those monsters on the derelict?"

"You'd have to ask Solomon yourself, but if there is anything I've learned over the decades." Judah looked deep into his counterpart's eyes. "There are no coincidences."

-x-

In the void lay a great shining jewel, as brilliant as the crown stone upon a great monarch's head. A thousand impossible colors dance over the edge of a barrier against pure senselessness. It seethes and shimmers as a fragile bubble crystallized by frost and flame. Yet against a vicious current that crashes and screams and lashes out against the firmament, it is impenetrable. A flickering candle amongst a sea of insanity.

The Lorekeeper's eyes spring open, he takes in a breath.

"Malachi…you perceive it too do you not?"

"…Yes. I've conferred with the Astropaths and even Navigator Laniyah…they tell me the same."

Solomon turned back from the viewing port to face his brethren of the Librarium. Malachi stood stiff and focused, gazing out at the blue marble slowly creeping towards the Battle Barge. Some paces behind him were the two juniors of their own personal brotherhood. Nathaniel Quintus and Moab Sahel were the twin Lexicanums aboard the _Sinai_. Nathaniel took after Malachi in his complexion but with youth still left to sap, as Solomon enjoyed to rib. Moab on the other hand had a far duskier complexion along with a short black beard. Like the Codicier, they gazed as or even more fervently ahead.

"I will see that the Captains are apprised of the situation."

"Solomon…I think fate has something in store for us after all."

Both men's gazes fell back upon the encroaching world.

And at its shattered moon.

-x-

The world below them could not be more dissimilar, or more beautiful than the ruined husk they had left behind. An immense bow-shaped continent takes its position as the largest landmass visible. Expansive forests and grassy plains punctuated by craggy snow-capped mountains on one side. While on the other a massive desert sweeps across the earth, gradually fading into sparse savannas and dry scrubland. The continent to the East is by far the most diverse. It is perforated with windswept and jagged landforms, alpine tundra, a roiling torrent of lava fields, and other wide-ranging biomes.

To the far south is a landmass consisting of mainly desert, with a touch of green. On the opposite side to the far north is a cold, frozen chunk of ice. Bizarrely, green foliage appears in areas where climate or latitude should dictate only tundra or barren wasteland should be. To the northwest is perhaps the strangest of all the continents present. A tide of emerald green quickly fades into a bleak, coal-black landscape. Rather than volcanic, it simply appears that whatever conditions there are hostile to life on a fundamental level. Other small islands and landmasses dot the surface, all divided by a sea of the deepest sapphire.

"I'm quite confident that violates the laws of physics."

Immanuel turns to regard the cyberized Marine upon his command throne, enigmatic clicks and buzzes issuing forth from his stationary form. Rather than the verdant planet below, the whole of the bridge was absorbed by the sight of its shattered companion. A massive gouge resembling an impact of immense proportion sheared away nearly half of the moon's mass. Fragments floated around the gouge in what looked like a suspended state of stasis.

"I've run all of the energy and gravimetric scans I could, but every time it comes back inconclusive. All that I can divine is that whatever happened here was well before our arrival, and massive."

Immanuel looked uncomforted at Elhanan's proclamation. "And the planet?"

"There is indeed civilization present upon this world…human civilization. Auguries register the Ӕtheric signs of human life as well as power signatures." The aged Marine clicks and whirrs once more. "I have identified and briefly scanned their global communications network, it is peculiar."

"Peculiar?"

"It is as if they use nothing but high frequency vox signals for communication and data transfer. Broadcast pulses cover nearly the entire world alongside smaller relay points. I likewise detect no objects in satellite orbit… a very inefficient arrangement in my opinion."

"Show me a habitational layout."

"It seems to be concentrated around several distinct clusters on the planet." A holo-pict visualizer slid down from the ceiling and a map of the world below sprung to life. Spots indicating large gatherings of humanity were illuminated in yellow circles. Immanuel's brow furrowed in confusion.

"They have such prime room for expansion, and yet outside of those clusters there are very few."

"Techno-Barbarians of some sort?" Malchus breaks his silence. "Like on Korman Secundus, the humans there clustered around derelict Hive Cities and based their existence on salvaging what archeotech they could. It would help explain the seemingly awkward communications technology. Or perhaps some cultural or historical factors are at work that make leaving those centers taboo?"

"Whatever their reasons, we won't figure it out from up here." Immanuel grumbled as he read over the displayed map. "Have the scans told you anything else?"

"One thing. There is an unusual and subtle atmospheric anomaly present in my emission scans, it remains intractably unclassifiable as of this moment. The energy appears to blend into the background spectrum to the point where any less advanced sensors would not have picked it up. Whatever it is, it eludes any attempts of direct detection."

"That is because none of your scanners can divine the presence of the Empyrean, Shipmaster."

Solomon paces out from behind the massive throne of the Shipmaster, an indiscernible mien adorning his face. Both Captains eye him with an unsure expression. "This planet…this planet **resonates** with psychic energy."

"Are you saying this is a Daemon World?" Immanuel balks incredulously.

"No, and therein lies the conundrum…the Warp is unusually tranquil upon that planet's surface. The energies of Warp-space are seemingly swept straight into it, for lack of a better word and dispersed into the atmosphere. It is saturated with such potency that the legends of old scoured Prospero appear at the forefront of my mind, yet-." Solomon pauses as he strides towards the holo-pict map.

"It is calm nonetheless, almost as if one had covered it with a great sieve. Such raw power and yet there are no discernible defects present from orbit. I shudder to imagine what grotesque influence could have twisted the very fabric of both worlds to this end." Solomon regards the slowly rotating moon nearby with an ominous grimace.

Both Captains are stone-faced at the news brought by the Lorekeeper. In near unison they turn to gaze out at the viewing panes toward the planet. Malchus makes to speak when a harsh series of beeps erupts from Elhanan's throne.

"Alert, I have identified an Imperial beacon! Distress signature profile indicates Mechanicus coding. Signal is faint."

Malchus is taken aback. "The Techpriests?!"

"Attempting relay trace, standby."

The holo-pict map changes to display a tactical readout of the landmasses. Grids and lines of sweeping sensor data ply across for tense moments before data squares focus on a geographical area. Zooming in at the ground level brings a wide tract of the preeminent continent's land into focus. Deep river valleys, mountainous foothills and an abundance of old-growth forest blanket most of the targeted area.

"Source is fading, increasing power."

The tract becomes smaller and smaller with every passing minute. A vast area eventually becomes centered on a region several dozen square kilometers in scope. Then warning bursts of data accompanying flashing holo-pict sigils indicate a loss of an already poor signal. Many on the bridge watch with bated breath as Elhanan works furiously to trace the source. Suddenly, a long whine blares from the throne. The aged Shipmaster's lenses refocus furiously as his teeth grit in frustration.

 **ERROR: CONTACT LOST**

"Unable to fully trace signal…apologies my brothers."

"No need Shipmaster, this is already more than we have had to go on before." Immanuel turns towards his fellow Captain. "It seems we have a ground team to put together."

-x-

Most mortals upon seeing an Astartes for the first time would assume that they are quite weighed down by their armor. The hundreds of kilos of bulk the ceramite and plasteel add onto an already enormous frame simply **must** slow them down. It doesn't. An element of the transhuman dread which surrounds the Space Marines is the sheer fluidity of their movements. So large and yet no mortal will ever be able to match their finesse. They move with such grace and skill yet with such brute force and unrelenting speed. Many an overconfident foe has fallen prey to delusions of superior agility, and every one of them has subsequently paid the price.

Scout Marines are even more dexterous.

While not arrayed in the signature armor as their more experienced brethren, Space Marine Scouts are masters of stealth and infiltration. The dagger to offset the sabre and bludgeon. They are the pathfinders and saboteurs, assassins and spies. Before the enemy has even realized they are under assault by a Chapter, the Scouts will have prepared the way with a thousand tiny, vicious cuts. When the enemy finally realizes their crippled state, it is often too late as the Drop Pods come thundering down to a foe already blind and beheaded. The Scouts withdraw wordlessly back into the landscape, as if they had never even been there.

It is no secret that the Ashen Heralds favor overwhelming force and shock tactics to quickly and mercilessly eradicate an enemy. If orbital bombardment isn't enough, the air wing will saturate the target with precise missile and cannon fire. On open terrain the enemy faces the mighty arsenal of ancient vehicles fielded in surprising number, battle tanks and Dreadnoughts that once led the way in the Great Crusade trample all underfoot. Brothers follow quickly behind on Rhinos and Razorbacks, deploying ahead to support their armor. The Heralds move as a great wave to sweep away all resistance.

Should an enemy dig into say, a Hive City or other imposing citadel, one could forgive them for thinking they are well defended. What awaits them is nothing short than a vision of avenging hellfire. Parchment clad Angels of Death flush them out of their holes. Flamers and even vicious chemical weapons pour into every orifice. Walls are blown apart by siege tanks and planted explosives, often to corral fleeing prey. They are herded like Grox and slaughtered to the last. Defenses are calculatedly deconstructed brick by brick until all that remains is smoldering ashes and blackened bones. Sarelon's Doom Cults learned this lesson very well. A pity there are never any left to teach it.

To be a Scout for such a heavy-handed Chapter is a challenging task indeed. But their role is no less important. They must be as the drifting smoke upon the wind in the face of the advancing firestorm. They move swiftly, often under strict timetables set by the encroaching bombardment or Drop Pod assaults. To fade into the chaos of battle and deliver vital information while remaining undetected. Foes who have the misfortune to discover them are silenced immediately and relentlessly. Even as the last of the enemy falls to the ordnance of the Chapter, the Scouts are the one thing they never saw. Yet even with their specialties, traditional wilderness recon is not forgotten.

It is nighttime. The forest floor is carpeted in blankets of spongy soil and moss. Low lying shrubs and ferns mix with tangled roots to form a mat of twisting undergrowth. What little light the moon provides is muted by the dense old growth canopy. Then a disturbance makes itself known. Growls and chuffing snorts overtake the chirping of insects and hooting of nocturnal birds. From the deep forest trudges a group of pitch-black forms. Stalking through the shrouded woods, the Beowolves follow the lead of their Alpha. Yet the Grimm move not in the confident, bestial gate that befits the virtual rulers of the wilds.

The elder Alpha swivels its head around again and again, eyes darting at every minuscule noise. Its nose takes in deep breaths of air to scent out any potential anomaly. Yet even as its senses reassure the beast that its pack is well and truly alone, a deeper part of its mind cannot reconcile that fact. Beowolves are the most aggressive and numerous type of Grimm, throwing themselves at enemies with reckless abandon. Trained hunters cut through them with almost no second thoughts. They are chaff, and they do not last long.

To become an Alpha is a true testament to the learning capabilities of the Grimm. Surviving not only their own tendencies but the humans it wars against is not an easy task to accomplish. And with this experience comes a sort of feral intelligence that simply **knows** when something is very wrong. A passing scent here, a subtle crack there, things on their own that should not concern the beast instead send its mind into a frenzy of activity. For there is one sense that overrides all others in the creatures of Grimm.

The presence of humanity.

A loud blow slices through the night air. The Alpha's ears dart skyward as it lets out a snarling growl, fangs bared. With unknowable gestures the pack forms up behind it. Coming to a small break in the trees the pack immediately notices the source of the disturbance. A large rock has been chucked against the side of a tree, scraping away layers of lichen and bark to leave a small gash. Striding over to the stone, the Alpha clutches it in its paws. Suddenly, the moonlight rolls between the leaves and catches something odd. Something shimmers ever so slightly in the light.

It almost blended into the background of the forest, almost. The Alpha drops the stone and slowly stomps toward the befuddling mirage. In its comparatively long life it had never seen something like this before. The Alpha marvels at how the anomaly nearly fades into the surroundings. Then a scent meanders its way into its nose. Chuffing in confusion, the Grimm brings its head up to sniff around. It comes face to face with twin pools of green.

And the barrel of a gun.

The Alpha's mind barely has time to process this development before the bolt round blows its head apart.

In a quarter second after the detonation of the round and the chunks of black matter spraying over the pack, a multitude of bright flashes and thunderous reports sound forth from the woods. The Beowolf closest to the Alpha has its torso excavated by heavy pellets. Two more Grimm are torn apart in a spray of bolts that nearly split them both in half. Three more are felled by a thundering line of heavier shells that rip through their bodies as easily as they rip through the ancient bark of the trees. The thoroughly confused runt in the back dies last, a silent bolt straight into the neck.

The headless Alpha slumps to the forest floor.

The Scout is stone-still, suppressed bolter still trailing tendrils of gun smoke. Green-tinted magna goggles cover his eyes, taking in every minute detail of the dissipating corpses in front of him. Across the mouth and nose is a grilled face mask taken as a replacement for the helmets they lack as Scouts. A thick cloak and hood of now blood-spattered cameleoline blends most of his body into the background of the forest like a shimmering mirage. The silence of the forest returns. Then the motionless Scout asks a question.

"Practical reason for engagement?"

From the dark, a younger voice pipes up.

"They were crossing over into our path too often, Sergeant."

"Good, we flow around conflict when we can. Engagement brings suspicion, prepare to move out."

Moving up from his crouch, Sergeant Bezalel scans the clearing. Five shapes fade into being as their camo-cloaks are thrown back. The Astartes Scout armor they wear is painted in a muted variation of Chapter colors. Grenade webbing and tactical gear fill out the extent of their armor. Yet the ubiquitous silver script and parchment are still very much present on their plate. Their heads which are usually concealed by thick wrappings of cameleoline hoods are exposed. Faces unblemished by combat stare from behind green lenses at their Sergeant.

Two are armed with more modern Godwyn Bolters, lacking the need for the Tigrus pattern's machine spirit-armor integration as well as denoting their subordinate station. One has a powerful Astartes Shotgun alongside a belt of shells strapped over his plate. A particularly thickset Scout carries a Heavy Bolter modified for fieldwork, equipped with a large drum magazine and bipod. Bezalel by contrast, carries a far more revered piece of wargear. A Tigrus-Exitus pattern Stalker Bolter complete with enhanced targeting scope and extended barrel, with built in sound and flash dampener. His long range comm-bead buzzes to life. Bezalel puts a finger to his ear.

" _Dagger Squad reporting, contact with unknown hostiles ad tempus-designate: Beasts."_

"Wisp squad acknowledges contact, seven Beasts dispatched."

" _Press on to nearest settlement?"_

"Affirmative, mission parameters unchanged."

The opposition had been a surprise.

From the moment the Storm Eagle gunships had dropped them off in a forest clearing, the presence of the creatures made themselves known. He had heard the tales of the Boarding Squads and had seen the combat footage. But their first taste of combat had proven beyond any doubts that these were the same kind, or at least closely related to the abominations that had infested the derelict. They vaguely reminded Bezalel of the wolves used by their Fenrisian brethren, if much less bulky.

Keying up an order on the tight-beam squadlink, Bezalel leads his Scouts on towards the edge of the tree line. From the orbital scans conducted of the region, several large settlements resided in the general area where the signal had broadcasted from. The first one that their squads had been assigned to recon was close now. Highlighted by the shattered moon, the black peak dominated the landscape for kilometers around. Bezalel had a sneaking suspicion that the odd energy pervading the planet had something to do with the covert insertion. If something was that strange to concern Solomon that much, then any caution was well warranted.

"It seems a cruel twist of fate that such a beautiful world could harbor such abominations." The shotgun toting Scout at his side whispers into his comm-bead.

"Catachan appeared from orbit to its first colonists as a paradise, Zophiel, thankfully the trees here aren't trying to strangle us." Subdued chuckles rang out across the squadlink. "Although we will certainly find bigger examples of those Beasts, as is the apparent law of this wretched galaxy."

Then the clattering drumming of gunfire clefts across the night sky.

To an outside observer, it would have appeared that the Astartes had simply vanished into thin air. The light-bending camouflage girding their armor flutters around them but still blends into the now rapidly passing forest. Hissing various orders to his own squadlink and long-range communicator, Bezalel and his Marines advance upon the battle. Their adversary becomes apparent within minutes.

"Tellus, mission parameters may require slight deviation."

-x-

The Beowolf clambers up to the battlements in long groping strides, claws biting deep into any exposed wood. Others of his kind either fall or hook themselves on vicious spikes, braying before their bodies are slashed apart or peppered with rounds. Reaching the top its head is met by the keening flash of a sharpened blade. The Grimm's head is cleaved from its body in a spray of dark lifeblood before it falls to the ground below. A shout alerts him as more Beowolves scale up the battlements to his left. They bite and claw at the ragged defenders, Lucas winces as a spray of blood sails through the air on the heels of a scream. Weaving through the chaos he twirls the black blade into a whirling storm. He decapitates a second Grimm before delivering a vicious slash that catches the other two in their throats. The howls begin to wane.

Panting, Lucas shifts his blade-staff back into its bow form and looks out at the battlefield. He draws another arrow from his concerningly lighter quiver before pulling back on the string. A shining bolt catches the chest of a charging Alpha before excising its inscrutable guts. Excising certain thoughts from his mind was becoming increasingly more difficult, however, the longer he looked at the monsters below, illuminated by dim searchlights. What the Grimm could not destroy with force would be eroded with sheer numbers.

His talents and the thoroughly prepared defenses had made the larger Grimm easier targets for the massed volleys of the defenders. The creatures of darkness crashed against the gate and the walls, but none could breach either. Though the roof was equal parts holes and wood now, it had served its purpose of warding off the razor feathers of the larger Nevermores. But it was the Beowolves that proved to be their greatest bane. A large pack had followed the tail end of their last assault and had not let up. Though many looked young enough to be born only scant hours ago they still clawed at their bastion with soulless fury. Gradually, the Grimm slacken their assault. But no one lowers their weapons in relief.

They are simply regrouping.

The bowman is panting, he steadies himself against the marred wood of the wall. "Okay…best case scenario now…we live through the night, heh." His laugh is dry and soberly bitter. Lucas looks down to his right.

A flip lighter sparks up in shaky hands. "Lucas, I think of you as a son, but please just shut the fuck up for a moment." Lighting the hand-rolled cigarette, Zaff takes a long drag. "Oh…damn it."

"You really shouldn't smoke those things; that's how you get cancer." A not-so-subtle hand gesture serves as the ragged man's reply.

Zaff had thick bandages encircling his torso. Dried blood soaked through to the outer layer in muted lines of red. The armor and leather are torn up in various places. The other militia members are little better. Field dressings and half-lidded eyes as far as he could see. Several of the emplaced machine guns were down, some for good with blown out mechanisms. The wonder weapons were either out of ammo or had malfunctioned. Zaff blows out a puff of smoke.

"My old man really shouldn't have built a village here." He looks back at the peak. "Nowhere to run besides the mine, we win, or we die. Stubborn really, just like the Coopers."

"As long as I'm alive, that's not happening."

"Yeah?" The scattered growls grow in pitch. Zaff slides a magazine into his battle rifle. He pulls back the slide. "Same here." He rises to face the moonlit, battle-scarred ground. Red eyes dot the tree line behind the river. At a silent signal, they charge forward and wade into the waterway. What guns that still have ammunition open fire on the pack. Founts of water and black matter spew upwards from the noticeably slackened barrage. Lucas pulls back his bowstring and lines up a target.

Only to witness the dozen lead Grimm blown apart.

Sounds that seem nothing less than miniature explosions roar over the tumult of battle. Flashes of muted light illuminate a section of thicket off to the side. Lucas can barely make out hazy outlines between the innumerable detonations spewing forth from their weaponry. Black forms are turned into flailing pulp. Limbs are blown clean off. Heads explode in pinpoint shots in rapid succession. The Grimm are absolutely blindsided. But they aren't helpless.

The whole pack surges forth from the woods towards the newer and more dangerous threat. Those few survivors in the river scramble up its banks in a mad dash. Behind several snarling Alphas the dozens strong horde presses on. Even as they advance, many are felled mid-stride by the formidable weapons of the unknown men. They focus fire on the edges of the horde, forcing many of its members into a narrower and tighter path of attack. The Grimm are slowly crowding together. Herded into a tight mob.

A perfect target.

A fusillade of new munitions rakes across the tightly packed formation like a scythe at harvest time. The forest that the Beowolves once occupied now seems to turn on them. From seemingly everywhere and nowhere death rains down upon them. Explosions sound out from the formation which decimate entire groups at a single time. Caught in a vicious crossfire, and with their Alphas either dead or so grievously wounded they might as well be, the Grimm scatter. Many are picked off by precision fire while others charge whimpering back into the forest. The guns fall silent. It takes Lucas a full minute to realize his jaw is still open.

The wind is now the only sound that can be heard.

"…Ok then." Is the only thing that the archer can think of to say. Looking at the militia, the surprised confusion he feels is mirrored. Zaff's still lit cigarette smolders at his feet. Then the chatter begins.

"W-what the hell just happened?"

"Hunters!?"

"Nah man, they wouldn't send this many for us."

"Is it the army, does the army do stuff like this?"

"Whatever kind of guns those were, I want some."

"What's that?"

The whole of the garrison turns at the man's exclamation.

Nearly twenty silhouettes framed by the moonlight are slowly advancing up the slight incline and toward the walls. What they could see silenced any further conversation. Their height was the first thing many noticed. Averaging out at around seven and a half feet tall. They looked strong enough to rip an Ursa in half. From their covered faces to their large boots they were dressed in impressive armor that looked sturdier than the Atlesian's latest designs. Cloaks that appeared to blend into the background were thrown back, revealing the numerous weapons they carried.

Their weapons were massive compared to the small arms carried by the militia, some two-handed examples looked like they weighed more than five men put together. Zaff stood unblinking, rifle dangling from its carrying strap. Lucas's snapping fingers broke him out of his trance. Working up some courage in his old bones, the Watch Master cups his hands together.

"Hello over there!"

The warriors slow their advance but do not stop.

"We appreciate what you people just did, but we're kind of on edge right now. Do you mind telling us who you all are?" They didn't strike him as bandits, maybe special ops soldiers?

Two figures suddenly broke off from the main group and approached the walls. Coming into clearer view, the shimmering fabric was almost mesmerizing in the way it shielded them from sight. Now fully illuminated by the lights on the walls, the strange men came to a halt. The stranger with the large scoped gun and blocky sword-thing across his back waist shifted his weight, he seemed to be mulling over what to say. The scars and gear seemed to scream military, yet Zaff grew more unsure the longer he studied their armor. The symbology didn't look like anything he was familiar with.

"Potestis intelligere me? Si potes, et nulla te vult nocere."

Zaff blinks. "Are you…speaking in the Old Tongue?"

The man seems to take his response into consideration.

"Salve…tu have none… reasons to fear we."

His words in the Common Parlance are stilted and unsure, tinged with an accent that Zaff cannot place. The voice is slightly filtered through the breathing mask, but it cannot disguise its deep tone. Thankfully, Zaff alleviates the stranger's woes.

"Nolite ergo solliciti esse, me possit loqui."

-x-

Bezalel nearly lets out a sigh when the man replies in coarse, yet audibly recognizable High Gothic. Millenia of linguistic drift would be hard to overcome, and the preliminary language packet gleaned from their network was…threadbare, to say the least. Their tongue seemed to have less drift than expected, though.

"And they called me too traditional, guess all those lessons finally paid off. Strange that you seem to speak it as a first language though. My name's Zaff Cooper and this is Lucas Orion. Anyway, who are you people?"

"I am Scout Sergeant Bezalel, and this- "He points to his silent companion. "-Is Scout Sergeant Tellus."

"You people from the Vale Army?"

"No"

"Mercenaries?"

Tellus nearly took offense at that. "We are certainly no sellswords."

"Well I've never heard of Hunters in groups this large before, so we're kind of running out of occupations."

"…I assume you don't think we catch game for a living?"

The younger human next to the elder one looked at Bezalel like he had grown a second head. "Uh, of course not, Hunters typically hunt…Grimm, right?" The blank look from the Sergeant only seemed to confuse the man more.

"Do you mean those creatures in the woods?" Tellus asked openly. Zaff's eyes went half-lidded.

"…Okay now I know you're just fucking with us." Bezalel could see this was getting them nowhere.

"We are Scouts of the Emperor's own Adeptus Astartes, the third squad of the Tenth Company of the Ashen Heralds Chapter of Space Marines. We have been dispatched to this system to investigate the fate of an Adeptus Mechanicus Explorator Vessel. And I am certainly not 'fucking with you' good sir."

The pause after Bezalel's proclamation was decidedly awkward. "You're from space?" Lucas inquired.

"Yes"

Bezalel couldn't quite place the expressions on their faces. "Normally, I would call you crazy…but that weird airship finally makes a bit of sense."

"What?"

Zaff motions to a nearby militiamen who hoists a long rifle above the ramparts.

"Where did you acquire a Galvanic Rifle?" Lucas double takes in surprise.

"Holy shit they really are from space!"

-x-

From the tree line past the river, a lone Grimm stares ahead at the Astartes before the walls. Its eyes are the same burning red that unites all the Grimm on Remnant. Yet this Grimm has a much more sinister presence surrounding it. Lines of red energy course across its skin like burning veins of fire. It stands stone-still in the undergrowth. Its head follows the Marines as they enter the battered gate with unnerving intensity. As the gate closes, so does the presence abandon the Grimm. Its shaded form stalks back into the woods.

The deep forests of Sanus are some of the largest known on the planet. Trees centuries old cover much of the landmass in a solid green wall. It is a textbook example of how the Grimm infest the world. On the border between forest and open grasslands or more often, Man's domain, younger Grimm constantly probe forth. Disorganized assaults and feral raids are all that the inner towns usually face. But the deeper one goes, the rule states, the older and more dangerous Grimm appear. The lure of undiscovered resources and a life far from the constraints of Kingdom law are some of the only appeals to frontier life.

Then there are the places no sane man would ever set foot in. Common knowledge holds that no one ever has. Places where even the Beowolves could tear apart an average hunter. Places where Grimm unseen by man for centuries reside. Places where the most ancient of the creatures of darkness simply bide their time. Until they awaken. Then the killing can begin again.

The abomination smiles.

-x-

 **Codex**

 **Chaplains: The Chaplains of the Heralds mainly serve the same role as with other Chapters. They drive their brothers to feats of heroism and frenzy in the face of the enemy and serve as great warriors in the field. Their armor is designed to terrify those who turn to the darkness and inspire righteous fury in the true loyal sons of the Emperor. It is also the duty of the Chaplains to keep the names of the dead and lead the cremation ceremonies of fallen brothers.**

 **Armory: The Ashen Heralds make extensive use of many pieces of wargear that represented the pinnacle of Imperial engineering. Such examples include their Chapter-wide near standard use of Maximus armor and Tigrus Bolters. A spattering of the ultra-rare Volkite blasters see limited use in the upper battle companies. Deimos pattern vehicles and Contemptor Dreadnoughts march under strike wings of Storm Eagles. It is said that during the Macharian Purge, the Minotaurs and Heralds fighting together evoked the image of the Great Crusade reborn. In the deeper vaults of the Chapter Armorium, there are said to rest even more terrible war machines used in only the direst of circumstances.**

 **Decorations: Ornamentation among brothers can vary but typically involves parchments marked with oaths and prayers to safeguard their body and soul in battle. Decorations of mighty Chapter deeds is also very pronounced, especially among the Lorekeepers. Silver writing written in the traditional Abjadic script of Levantus typically follows the same model. Although those scripts written in a tongue only the Heralds can read could theoretically harbor messages relating to more sensitive aspects of Chapter Lore.**

 **A/N: Made minor edits to previous chapters to get rid of Tyranids. Lore-freak in me forgot they came only later in M41. Sorry it took so long, college has been crushing me lately.**


	5. Chapter 4

Memory and Fate

Chapter 4: The Stage is Set

" _This galaxy conceals many hidden wonders. And just as many hidden horrors."_ – Herodotus, High Loremaster

-x-

A dark, boundless void surrounded her.

Then after a moment or a millennium, a landscape began to take shape. Whirling tendrils of black stone formed a pool of running earth underneath her feet. Crystals burst like geysers from the solidifying matter. A black sun set against a blood red sky cast a menacing glow. Brimstone smog filled the air with churning sour miasma. Cinder opened her eyes. She knew she was not physically here, but the sheer detail of her mistresses' domain nearly deceived her senses. Only the slight ripple of ground that only liquid should have marked this place apart from reality.

A presence then wormed its way into the back of her skull. Black mist swirled up and out of the bare ground. It absorbed all light so utterly that to look on it was as the sight of death itself. The mist grew taller and taller until it coalesced into an ovoid formation on the ground. Then someone stepped through. Cinder dropped her head in a low bow, genuflecting as her station required. She dared not look up.

"Mistress."

" **Rise."**

Looking her Lady in the face was always a somewhat unnerving experience, even for one as hardened and used to her as she was. The almost porcelain white skin punctuated by varicose veins. The bone-white hair tucked in an elaborate bun. A tar and blood colored attire that smothered the light around it. But it was her eyes that truly set her Mistress apart from everyone else. Her irises were the color of burning coals set on a backdrop of eerily black sclera. Yet as the grandeur and anxiety of her coming faded, Cinder noted something off about Salem. She seemed deep in thought, eyes slowly turning in their sockets over a particularly vexing concern, brow and lips wrinkled.

"I do not mean to offend…but you seem troubled, my Lady."

" **Our plan is threatened."**

Cinder's eyes went wide.

"Wha-No! How?! I have covered our tracks at every-"

" **Stop."**

The red-garbed pyromancer winced at the bite of Salem's command.

" **The scenario I discussed with you some time ago…has come to pass."** Cinder's breath hitched. **"The secondary contingency plan must be set into place."**

"I have…misgivings about the pliability of my subordinates in that regard."

" **Young Mercury is a simple-minded brute, Emerald is hopelessly infatuated with you."** Salem dryly chuckled as Cinder shuffled uncomfortably. " **They are pawns, nothing more. They will be useful, as is their intended purpose. You cannot yet rejoice in it yourself. On another matter, what is your opinion of Taurus?"**

Cinder seems to grimace at the mention of power before composing herself. "His anger and spite at the world make him very…suggestible, if a bit hungry for power."

" **A sound deduction. Plant the seeds now and harvest later, though. Risking exposure before the next phase could unravel everything. Other promising targets are left to your discretion, but any outside your circle must be handled with caution."**

"Do we stay the course?"

" **Until necessity, or I deem otherwise; farewell."**

Salem evaporates into a roiling cloud of fog. The hellish landscape surrounding Cinder begins to dissipate as well, the heavens and earth falling away like raindrops. The void returns for a split second before a sensation not unlike whiplash overtakes her. Cinder opens her eyes to gaze upon her team's room at the Beacon dorms. Slowly rising in her bed, she winces at the pounding pain in her skull.

"Cinder?"

Emerald was seated in a chair, scroll now set aside on a desk. Mercury was lazily reclining on his own bed, one eyebrow raised. "I have…spoken with our Mistress."

"Well, what did she say?" Mercury asked in his typically indolent tone. "The Breach isn't off is it? Roman says it's almost ready.

Cinder drew in a breath as she placed her hands to her chin. "Let me ask both of you a question." The two underlings glanced at one another before looking at Cinder.

"Do you have faith in a higher power?"

-x-

Jerry Green was assigned to one of the coziest positions on the Crown's Point duty roster. Being a guard for the outer wall meant being on constant alert for encroaching Grimm, or other unsavory elements trying to survive in the frontier. But being the commander was a desk job at most. Ordering the rowdy guards around took a degree of respect considering what most of them used to be, but Lien worked as well. Luckily for him and everyone inside, the Point was an almost perfect location for a settlement.

A 360° field of vision from atop a large rock-strewn hill gave defenders a commanding position from all sides. Below near the river and small farming enclave were low-lying floodplains with extremely agreeable soil. Walls cut from quarried stone and reinforced by metal struts on the inside made for an impressive defense. Watchtowers, each holding two finely made and fully stocked Dust machine guns defended the outer works. Auto-loading cannons designed for the larger varieties of Grimm were emplaced in a few circular depressions ringing the ramparts. Each can fire solid or shrapnel shot depending on the enemy. No one with any sense messed with the Point.

The day had begun just like any other for the balding guard commander. Lookouts in the watchtowers reported that everything was clear down below in all directions. The shanty town encircling the settlement was rising for another day of labor for their 'protectors'. The 'farmers' down below were diligently tending to the burgeoning crops under the direction of Point supervisors. Jerry almost pitied them, but then he made himself laugh when he thought of how pathetic they were. Life here was as close to comfortable as it could be, if you were on the right side of the walls, that is.

The door to the guard house opened to reveal his second in command. She was a tan-skinned lady with a rough scar crossing over her nose. A twisted braid ran down the back of her hair.

"Hey Cap', we got someone coming up the road."

Jerry grumbled, putting down an imported magazine. "Just one, Shayla?" He was maybe a touch too heavyset for this job, but the guns and hardened guards up top did most of the grunt work.

"It's the geezer from the Crag"

"Oh perfect."

Well his good mood was gone.

Trundling up from his upholstered chair, the supposed guard commander slowly paced up the stairs that led to the ramparts. Shayla and a few of his men armed with rifles flanked him as he took position above the heavy-duty gate. Sure enough, the Watchmaster was slowly walking the partially cobbled path up towards the settlement. The man was casual, hands in his pockets and gun slung over his shoulder. Eventually coming into range of his voice, Jerry called out to him.

"Well good morning to you Zaff! I have to say I'm surprised to see you here."

Zaff gradually slowed to a stop before the gate in plain sight of the guards up top. "Believe me, I wouldn't come to this snake pit without a good reason." He looked out towards the laborers in the fields. "Still got what's left of Bluestone and Embershade put to work I see."

Jerry chuckled. "Oh indeed, their plight was so, so horrible that we simply **had** to give them a new home. Why without us, who knows where these wretched souls would be?" His men chuckled almost sadistically along at their bosses' charade.

"Probably still living in their villages, what with you blowing holes in their walls." His tone is surprisingly even.

Jerry quickly lost his humor. "Well that's what happens when you don't pay your dues…speaking of which." He crossed his arms. "Lazlo was pretty specific about what you little shits had to do to be allowed to **pay** again, and I don't see any of those wonder guns with you."

"You harass our walls for days, drive off friendly traders, try to poison our crops, and to top it all off you agitated the Grimm in the woods and ran off. We fought for days and the village nearly fell. Stealing from you felt better than sex, you can all fuck off and die." Cold anger is palpable in the man.

Jerry's eyes have narrowed to points, as have his men. "I think you need to read up on what negotiating means, friend."

The Watchmaster gathers himself. "It doesn't matter now anyway, we don't have them anymore."

"What!?" Jerry slams his hands onto the wall.

"We found out who those guns came from, and we gave them back. They were nice enough to take care of the Grimm around the village for us, so we thought we'd show some generosity."

The guard's faces are absolutely stupefied at the casual revelation. "Lazlo is not going to like the sound of this, he wanted that stuff bad." Jerry is honestly astounded at how bad Black Crag has fucked up. "Listen, if you thought Bluestone was bad, wait till we- "

"No Jerry, **you** listen. The people who those guns belong to aren't Atlesians, they're much worse. And they're not happy about what you've been doing with them. Extorting every settlement in the region for protection is one thing, but you've gone too far. Lazlo fancies himself as his own little tyrant out here. I've come as a courtesy to the few innocent people in this place."

The old man looks the portly, balding, red-faced commander straight in the eye. "You tell that ex-bandit, no-good shitkicker bastard of a boss that this is a fucking ultimatum. Give them their guns back and you **may** make it out of this alive."

The look on the commander's face is nothing short of murderous. His men tighten their grip on rifles and join him in their glares. Through grit teeth, Jerry replies. "Wait right **there** , I'll call the boss."

Zaff acquiesces to his demand, casually standing in the same spot. He even strikes up a small tune that irritates the remaining guards to no end. It isn't long before Jerry returns, a sick smile on his face.

He draws an obnoxiously decorated revolver from his waist and points it square at Zaff's head. "Yeah, that's not happening bub. Just for your tone? Lazlo isn't even giving you the choice of fieldwork."

After a slight pause, Zaff shrugs in acceptance. "Oh well, diplomacy failed." His tone is so blasé and noncommittal that Jerry is starting to wonder if the old man has snapped.

"Do you want to fucking die?" Jerry can only gape. "Because it sounds like you want to fucking die!"

"Truth be told I was mostly just distracting you until they got a good shot, which was about two seconds ago."

"…What?"

Zaff smiles.

Jerry's fat head explodes like an overripe melon.

Noiseless shots devastate the bodies of the guards on the wall. Shayla is still recovering from being splattered with her boss's brains before her entire torso simply ceases to exist as a part of her body. The rest die in much the same fashion. Zaff feels almost nothing as the ex-bandits are blown to pieces. Moments later, a buzz rings in his ear.

" _Watchmaster Zaff, this is Scout Team Shroud. We are beginning our assault."_

"I hear you loud and clear. That was…a long time coming."

" _Affirmative"_

Taking a running start towards the gate he pushes his Aura into his legs. Leaping almost to the top of the walls in a single bound, he grabs onto a crevice before hoisting himself over the battlements. Stepping through the pulped remains of the gate guards brings him in view of the inner settlement. Below and near the guard house are four petrified thugs in the middle of a game of cards. A lit cigarette tumbles from one's open mouth.

His battle rifle comes unslung within seconds. Heavy dust rounds crack through the air and embed themselves into his skull. Still firing, he leaps down to the ground below. Two more are felled to a hail of bullets while the last one finally comes to his senses. Rushing with a wordless yell the thug attempts to bury a machete into his skull. Zaff deflects the blade with his own bayonet and stabs it deep into the man's eye. Whirling around, He fires a trio of rounds into the chest of an ambitious thug trying to sneak up on him.

"Nice try."

Alarm bells were sounding out now. A clattering agitation of confused and angry voices was steadily growing in volume throughout the settlement. Already he could see a myriad of guards advancing on his position. However, a steadily growing rumble was now sounding out throughout the valley.

"So, where the hell are…they…" Zaff trails off as he stares at the sky.

"Oh"

-x-

Drop Pods are an exceedingly simple concept.

You take an armored shell and stick several Space Marines inside. You then launch the contraption from orbit and land it anywhere you want, at any moment you want. It's such a good idea that its barely changed in ten thousand years. The ultimate weapon of terror and surprise when utilized properly. So, when one crashes down right on top of several bandits, the defenders are understandably panicked.

Philetus had heard from the reports that these people had quite the ego. A group of petty bandits had overthrown the most prosperous settlement in the Green River Region. They had snuck into this settlement after dark and massacred its inhabitants. Years of subsequent extortion and punitive raids had yoked several surrounding settlements under their iron heel. The Grimm were apparently drawn by negative emotions, if the stories the villagers had relayed were more than superstition, and these marauders had plenty to spare. The discovery of a crashed craft of some sort and several powerful weapons had only further spurred on their leader to create his own petty fiefdom. The virtual slaves toiling outside spoke of just what he was willing to do.

The Marine cannot quite say he feels much pity as he steps from the Drop Pod and saws the first defender he sees in twain. Rounds plink off his armor like drops of rain on a roof. He knows of the strange substance that composes their weaponry, yet they barely scratch his paint. In the space of two more heartbeats his chainsword has bisected another two defenders at the waist. Brother Adrian lets loose with his assigned flamer and douses a gaggle of rapidly paling infantry with blazing promethium. Olus punches one group through the whole length of a small house with his Power Fist. Despite their supposedly impregnable defenses, the younger Marine notices a simple mistake almost immediately.

Their guns aren't meant to turn inward.

Their morale breaks in under a minute of combat with the black-armored giants and their hellishly roaring blades. Those that stood and fought now lay in various pieces and pools of blood. Most cut and run up towards a large manor perched on the highest part of the hill. Some enterprising guards bring out their vaunted 'wonder weapons' only to be felled by precision shots from bolt pistols before they could even begin to aim. Yet they are not the ones doing all the butchery.

Guards attempting to flank them are felled by standard caliber shots and the edge of a bayonet. Several are shot down in rapid succession. The Aura-wielder bounds from low rooftops and skirts onto the battlements to make sure the guns can't be dragged from their mountings and used on the interior. The cannons were static while the machine guns would only scratch their armor, but Philetus was thankful nonetheless. The man claimed this 'Aura' he spoke of was something everyone on Remnant had, but that only with training and experience could one utilize it properly. Was it psykery? He'd let the Lorekeepers parse that out for themselves. They lower their pistols.

His Sergeant and the rest of his squad do not bother to advance at a rapid pace. Their foes are almost comically outmatched in every single way. However, though they were petty thugs leeching off the work of others, Olus had commanded that any who surrendered would be allowed to do so. Philetus understood, they were here for something they knew. Killing a source of information was generally frowned upon.

The ostentatious house at the summit was the finest building in the settlement. A small perimeter wall and wide gate almost fashioned it a sort of keep. Statuary and lavish columns made for a very telling show of power in the frontier. What defenders that hadn't fled or hid had flooded into the manor grounds now holed up inside. There were machine guns up top, yet none had dared to fire upon the slowly encroaching Assault Squad. It was at that moment a distinctive figure made himself known. A small wooden gate swung open.

His hair was the color of rusted iron. His right eye had many scars crisscrossing over it, covered by a black cloth. His physique was seemingly composed of equal parts hardened muscle and scar tissue ranging from animalistic wounds to gunshots. Philetus could tell this by the half-dressed, haggard state the man was in. Only wearing a pair of trousers, the man's expression exuded nothing but pure fear. The bandit tyrant Sep Lazlo was quivering like a newborn fawn surrounded by equally traumatized guards.

"W-w-what a-are…" The man was scarcely able to form words as the intimidating figures of the Astartes loomed larger and larger over him. A grizzled voice cut the tyrant off.

"Those…" He said as he dropped down from a roof. "Would be the guys the wonder guns belong to, Lazlo."

His eyes shrunk to pinpricks as they traveled between Zaff and the gathered Marines. Looking further down the hill revealed the dozens of corpses that five minutes ago had been half of his able-bodied guard.

"And like we said to poor old Jerry before they blew his fucking head off…" Zaff gestured to the gate in the distance. "They aren't very happy with what you've been doing with 'em."

"T-take them…TAKE THEM FOR FUCKS SAKE TAKE WHATEVER YOU WANT-!" Lazlo was barely holding it together at this point.

" **Be** **Silent**."

The voice that came out of the vox slits of Olus's helmet was a low roar. The built-in amplifier made the voices of Astartes into weapons in and of themselves in certain situations. Lazlo clammed up almost immediately. His face also went a shade paler.

" **You will disarm yourselves. You will show our Brothers where you have stored the weaponry. And then you will gather in the center of the settlement**."

They were not requests.

-x-

Killing another person was one of the unfortunate things that came with the territory. It was always clearly stated in his lessons that his enemies would not always be the Grimm. Mankind could do well as monsters themselves. On the frontier between where man dared to tread and where the Grimm ruled with unquestioning might, morality took a very black and white approach.

Resources were scarce, safe land was even scarcer. Every man, woman, and child had to fight tooth and nail every day to eke out a living. The lure of wealth and freedom was a tempting dream that sadly ended many lives before even a sliver of it was realized. They lived in fortified enclaves never numbering more than a few hundred in size. Grimm made regular incursions so often that children learned to run from them as their very first lesson. Complacency could not be tolerated.

Or bandits.

Zaff had quickly stripped himself of his sympathy. To be a bandit here was to prey on folks who had almost nothing. A large raid often meant the death of whole communities overnight, something that the marauders planned on. They were more scavengers than bandits at some points. Monsters in human clothing were monsters all the same, and he was trained to kill monsters. The Crown's Point situation had been a thorn in everyone's side for so long that cutting down half a dozen of them felt like a weight off his shoulders, nothing more.

Touring the opulent manor only reinforced his disgust at the self-proclaimed tyrant. It was if some highborn had decided to plop down his summer home in the middle of the frontier. The walls were covered in paintings and faux-taxidermy Grimm heads claimed as kills by Lazlo. Expensive looking guns and swords hung as antiques. Zaff fumed as he realized everything in here was the result of some raid or mission of extortion undertaken against the neighboring villages. Although the cracking marble left in his companion's wake brought a rueful grin to his face.

Philetus, the name he had greeted the Watchmaster with, was so massive that the tile couldn't support his weight.

The Scouts had been quite a jarring sight with their own proportions. They paled in comparison to their fully armored companions that came a few days later. He thought they were some sort of advanced combat mechs at first. His mind could still barely comprehend how a living entity could move around in armor so large with such grace. Or for that matter, the existence of humanity beyond Remnant. The Imperium that these Space Marines spoke of.

That took a while to process.

There were still some Grimm remaining in the forest outside Black Crag. Their enigmatic visitors had wiped them out. Completely. No survivors, no stragglers, every single one of them were annihilated within half an hour. Now they were traipsing through the home of the most powerful and hated man in all Green River. He never believed in divine intervention before, but he might just start now.

"I do not believe that will support my weight."

"What?"

The Watchmaster is brought out of his musings by the filtered voice. "Oh right." The staircase is sturdy but would probably collapse under the weight of his armor. "I guess you could see if there's a basement."

Philetus nods his armored head and paces off wordlessly. They may look like humans, but to Zaff, many seem to miss the subtle nuances. It was nearly uncanny. Shrugging his shoulders, he ascends the stairs to the second floor.

-x-

The basement of the manor was an expansive affair, though the Marine still had to bend his head in some places. Numerous casks of what his superior senses could discern as alcohol rested in an entire quarter. Plentiful stores of food and water rested in boxes and shelves. Glowing vials and containers filled with Dust illuminated another part of the basement.

A quick walk-through had found only more space for storage and in turn, stored goods. Philetus had turned to leave, only for his heightened sense of hearing to pick up an indescribable sound. It was muffled, but clearly audible as coming from a living being. Could one of the defenders have hidden in here?

Unlocking his pistol from his side, the Assault Marine paced back into the basement. There. From a corner of the room that had seemed oddly barren came another more rapid series of noises. A tarp had been plastered over the wall the sounds now emanated from.

If this was an attempt at avoiding an Astartes, then it was a very poor one. Striding over to the far wall, Philetus grasped the sheet and tore it away. What he found was puzzling. It was a door. Made of solid metal and featureless save for a handle and large keyhole. Needing no such thing, Philetus simply wedged his digits into the seam and tore the door from its hinges. Light poured into the new opening.

He had been recruited from one of the many various petty kingdoms on his homeworld. He had survived the Lorekeepers testing his mind and spirit to their breaking point. He had lasted against full combat with an unarmed Astartes. He had endured the grueling process of ascending into something more than human where so many others had not. Philetus had spent decades in the company of the Scouts. He had learned the craft of war from his Sergeants and had been elevated to the rank of full Brother. Yet his training said nothing of what he should do now.

There were four of them.

The young women were pressed against the far corner of the chamber they were sequestered in. The room itself was windowless, bare stone only covered in a thin layer of straw. A large bucket was set off in another corner. The rattling of chains drew his attention back to the occupants. They were filthy. Hair tangled in knots and speckled with dirt and other grime. Their clothes were tattered and equally soiled. Numerous cuts and bruises marred their young skin. But it was the look on their faces through the dark that truly stood out.

Frightened eyes regarded the intruding Marine with pure fear. The oldest could not be more than sixteen in standard years. The others are younger, too young, they hang onto the eldest for dear life. One has her eyes closed and softly whimpers into a tattered shirt. Another girl garbed in a shawl whispers a prayer to some entities unfamiliar to the Astartes. Philetus then eyes the chains keeping them in place. Cuffs bound to their feet snake into the wall and are hooked to sturdy bolts. The cuffs are not padded, deep red marks are prevalent. For a moment, Philetus tries to process what a Space Marine should do in such a situation. Then he speaks.

"Are you-"

They flinch away at his voice. The harsh tone coming from his vox grille makes the whimpers turn to full-blown sobbing. He sees one way to possibly rectify the situation. Reaching up towards his helmet he orders the seals to lift. After a few seconds of hissing air and powering down, he removes his helmet. The display seems to have caught the attention of the four. They behold his uncovered face. Slightly oversized, yet heroically proportioned. Soft pools of brown met the wide ones of the girls.

"My name is Philetus, do you want to leave this place?"

The eldest answers almost soundlessly after a stunned minute of silence.

"…Yes"

Philetus gently inserts himself into the chamber. His backpack slightly scrapes against the frame, but he fits, if only just. While his voice could be rectified his girth certainly could not. The girls cower from him as he bends down towards them. He looks the eldest in the eye, pointing towards her cuff. She nods after a few seconds. With gentleness belying his strength he grasps it in his hands and snaps it open like a twig. The second oldest hesitates but the older girl softly placates her. He repeats the motion two more times until all of them are free.

"Can you stand on your own?"

Slowly, the elder one rises from the dirty floor. Two of the younger girls stand with her but the youngest, the one who had been praying, falls back to the straw with a pained whimper. Her foot was broken and has not healed right from the look of it. The others make to help her up. They are not much better, the eldest tries to hoist her up into her arms but is simply too weak. The girls are then surprised when Philetus reaches out his hands. The youngest girl seems apprehensive for a moment. The Marine attempts a calming smile to assuage their worries.

"It's alright, I can carry her out."

Seeing no other option, the three older girls whisper and coax the youngest into the outstretched, giant hands. Philetus slowly backs out of the chamber with the young girl cradled in his grasp. Philetus gazes down at the still apprehensive yet awe-struck gaze of the small child. She is weightless in his arms, almost hilariously small compared to the seven and a half feet tall Astartes. It takes a conscious effort to restrain his strength to a light enough touch not to injure the girl. He likens her to a fragile porcelain bauble. As he stands up in the basement proper, the other prisoners shuffle out the doorframe.

They stay in a small group of three, keeping their eyes on the youngest held in his arms. He gently places her down on a box.

"What are your names?" The eldest is the first to answer.

"I-I'm Anna."

The second oldest appears to get more comfortable. "I'm Jia Xiang."

"Micah." The third oldest still shakes ever so slightly. "And that's my sister Corah." The youngest was still enraptured with him.

Philetus may not have anticipated this situation, but it did not mean he was a fool. He was human once and he has seen and studied all the foul deeds man can do unto each other. Their clothes were much too revealing and thin for normal wear compared to the villagers. But Philetus was tactful enough not to pry into the obviously traumatized girls. An idea came to him as he looked toward the fallen tarp. He slowly draws his combat blade. The assembled girls paled at the sight of the comparatively massive blade until he kneels to the tarp. The blade quickly works through the fabric as he cuts it into four pieces.

"Here." He passes out three of the small strips to the girls. "You seem cold."

With still-hesitant hands they take hold of the fabric. Philetus was no tailor, the pieces may have been a bit too large, but they were satisfactory nonetheless. Turning toward Corah, he gently lifts her after a quick nod and bundles her up with the tarp. However, as he brought her back into his arms, her tattered shawl fell to the floor. Revealing her ears. Two pairs.

Time seemed to stop between breaths for the Marine. Abhorring the mutant was a tenant of the Imperium. To destroy those who would compromise Mankind's genetic purity. Twisted in body many a times meant corruption from exposure to the malefic powers of Chaos. Determining the Abhuman from the mutant was not his purview. He could crush her skull in a single instant. He could kill her in a thousand equally effective ways. But he does not. By all rights he should.

"Are you an angel?"

The simple question silences his line of thought. The three others look on the youngest curiously. The nearly human girl looks up with an expression of total innocence.

"Mama always said if we were ever in trouble, you pray the gods would send an angel to save you."

…

Philetus meets her gaze.

"I am…of a sort"

She smiles.

-x-

"Let us begin once more, did you take anything besides the weaponry?"

"No, we only took the guns, I swear."

Olus is certain the man is not lying. His calmness is a façade.

A group of nearly a hundred ex-bandits was gathered in the circular town center. Many had their hands pressed on their heads while some simply sat in a state of dazed disbelief. Most however, looked on in fear towards the now open gates. Or more accurately, the people flooding through it. The former inhabitants of Bluestone and Embershade glared at the mass of disarmed bandits several dozen feet away. Some field hands were covered with blood splatters. The interposed forms of several Astartes were all that stood between their former tormentors and vengeance. It made for excellent motivation.

"When you first found the site, you found only the corpses of the Skitarii and not any Techpriests?

"Nothing like what you described to me."

"And you are certain the craft was mostly undamaged?"

"It looked that way, yes."

"And this was only two weeks ago?"

"Yes, it's still there to the best of my knowledge."

Olus mused on the newfound revelations brought about by this petty tyrant. A great conflagration just inside the Deep Woods had drawn an armed scouting party. Finding much the same outcome as the Boarding Squads on the bridge. Examination of the craft interrupted by encroaching Grimm. The subsequent use of such weapons to further dominate the region.

He had gotten all that was necessary from these marauders. They had no further use to him as sources of information, and it would be up to the local authorities to punish their transgressions. But the justice promised by an angry mob to his back seemed somewhat improper. They had surrendered and had inflicted barely any damage on his Squad whatsoever. To give them over simply to be lynched by frontier settlers felt as an ill prospect to the Sergeant. His musings were interrupted by the speeding form of one Zaff Cooper. He dashed around the gaggle of prisoners to reach Olus.

" _Sergeant."_ It was Philetus over the squadlink. _"I have made a discovery within the dwelling."_

He walked down the path from the manor to the center of the settlement much slower than usual. That was for the benefit of the young ones he had in tow. They walked just behind the Marine, covered in white sheets. In Philetus's arms he cradled a younger girl. A young girl who had an extra pair of ears.

Olus barely noticed the fearful expressions of the bandits as the group walked past them. He barely noticed Lazlo's bleach-white face as the oldest girl that traveled with them lost her composure. Shrieking and breaking down in a storm of tears as she attempted to rush at Lazlo. Zaff had to restrain her. Olus watched the young abnormal girl babbling away about angels as she looked up at Philetus's revealed face. The younger Marine looked deep into the green lenses of his superior with a subtle nod before moving towards the now shouting crowd. The Watchmaster approached him.

"They were chained up in the basement." Zaff's expression was cold and murderous. "The one in his arms is **twelve.** " He takes in the information as he comes to a halt.

Tearful parents pull the children into embraces as they limp out from behind Philetus. Two of them, a human man and a woman sporting a distinctive black tail receive the youngest from Philetus's outstretched arms. Olus notes that the father appears fully human.

"Would those be the Faunus you mentioned in passing?"

"Yeah…I wouldn't call them mutants to their face by the way."

The concept of the Faunus should not surprise him. They are just one more divergent strain of humanity in this galaxy. But something about them does not strike them as Abhuman the way an Ogryn or Ratling does. The embraced family tugs at the miniscule pieces of emotion still present. It bothers him that they appear so like humanity in all but appearance. It bothers him how much he cares. Then the situation reasserts itself.

The tearful reunions become snarling death threats. The crowd was quickly turning into a powder keg.

They outnumbered the remaining bandits by at least two to one. Eyes and throats full of malice and promising nothing but death clamored ahead. Zaff wisely backed off from the mob. Only the presence of the Astartes kept them away from the surrendered thugs.

"Hey!" Olus glances down at the terrified bandit leader. "You-you can't just leave us like this! They'll kill us!"

The Assault Sergeant turns to look at the Drop Pod. The Techmarine sent down with them is already resealing the metal flaps. A Thunderhawk Transporter will reach this settlement within fifteen minutes for pickup and extraction. He had cleared all his mission objectives. He kneels to face the cowering bandit. Lazlo can see his reflection in the green lenses.

"That is not my concern."

Olus tunes out the indignant pleading cries for sanctuary that issue forth from the bandit leader.

His screams are among the last to be silenced.

-x-

The Grimm veer through the trees, attempting to interpose themselves behind foliage, but nothing could make a Space Marine lose his prey once acquired. Muscles both synthetic in the Power Armor and organic wrought through extensive modification easily keep pace behind the fleeing Beowolves. The slower variants of Grimm are long slain. Even while moving at speeds many would associate with light scout vehicles; their shots are unerring in their precision.

Bolts catch legs mid-stride, sending the Grimm tumbling down. They meet their end with a subsequent bolt, mono-serrated combat bayonets, or even a simple stomp from an armored giant. Shots are aimed through eyes or open mouths, the soft underbelly and any other unarmored part of their black bodies.

Astartes quickly learn the most efficient ways to kill.

Lysippus lines up another shot, his Spectris-Pattern Pistol roars, drum magazine shifting. A Kraken Penetrator sails out towards the Alpha. It's designed to pierce toughened slabs of armor. It will pierce Grimm flesh just as well. The round strikes the Beowolf directly under the base of the neck. It punches a hole into its throat and impacts into the ground in front of the tumbling corpse with a spray of dirt.

It's overkill, but the bone plating covering the larger varieties is not to be underestimated. It won't stop a direct hit, but it will deflect away an unlucky shot's detonation. He's seen the more massive Ursai absorb no less than three standard rounds before succumbing. The massive pack continues to flee from the Tactical Squad. The Astartes quickly ascertained the Grimm have a spark of feral intelligence. Some are swerving and even feinting as they run, trying to throw off his pursuit.

But those lessons were learned against un-augmented humans. Shooting and chasing large moving targets is almost pathetically easy for his sharpened reflexes and autosenses. Nine of his subordinate brethren nip at the heels of the beasts in such a way that Lysippus was sure an ironic jest could be made of it. Bolts and gouts of melta and plasma bursts bring down many of the creatures. The slowest members of the pack are torn down and slaughtered by the roaring guns of his Marines. The pursuers slow down.

The beasts were clever, but they could only think in the immediate. The sudden pause of their pursuers is seen only as a boon. The clearing ahead appears as a double-edged sword to the Grimm. It leaves them devoid of what little cover they have left, but also provides an opportunity for scattering. Some would undoubtedly survive. They would learn.

This cannot be allowed.

Midway through the clearing, just before the pack splits up, the underbrush erupts like the cone of a volcano. A withering hail of ordnance pulses from seemingly every direction. Fist-sized bolts tear open bodies and turn the Grimm into small meaty chunks. Metal Storm frag rounds detonate in mid-air and shred the lesser Beowolves with burning shards of razor-sharp shrapnel. Lances of bright energy core through an Alpha, leaving only a charred smear across the forest floor. The hidden Astartes walk their fire in precisely calculated patterns into the rough circle, looking from above like the spokes of a wheel. Every avenue of escape is blocked by their gunfire. The reports fall silent in under a minute.

The clearing is perforated with the dissipating corpses of the Grimm as well as the thoroughly violated foliage born from the hailstorm of projectiles. Out of the underbrush comes a full squad of Devastator Marines, their implements still trailing smoke and radiating heat. A suitably decorated Sergeant strides ahead of his brethren. In his hands he holds a venerable Tigrus Bolter with an attached plasma gun, while mag-locked to his side is an intimidating Power Mace. Devastator Sergeant Joachim paces over to the largest Grimm still in the process of sublimating.

"The humans of this world are correct about one thing." The approach of his fellow Sergeant does not disturb him. "The absence of trophies is quite a nuisance."

"I have never seen the Apothecaries so vexed before, they disappear before any meaningful examination can be done. And I would rather spend a month in the Penitorium than consume what passes for flesh with these beasts." Joachim grunts in agreement.

"At least their behavior is predictable, seven packs felled with the same method."

The two officers watch as the Beowolf slowly fades into black mist.

"This sector is clear; the Auspex detects no further responses."

"Yeah, no shit."

Both Sergeants incline their heads upwards to look at the young Huntsman. Lucas Orion sat on a sturdy tree limb, legs lazily dangling. His quiver was conspicuously full. Swinging his body, Lucas jumps down to the ground far below.

"This patch of forest was some of the most dangerous outside the Deep Woods. There were Grimm in here that have been living longer than I have. Yet in half a day you guys clear the whole thing out." Lucas almost seems frantic by this point. "I watched you-." He points to Lysippus. "-Chop a Beringel's head off and break a Beowolf's neck with it!"

The Sergeants glance at one another.

"Your assessment is factually correct." Joachim responds.

"…You guys are awesome and terrifying at the same time, and I don't know how to feel about that."

The senior officers chuckle, the sound comes out harsher through the vox-amplifiers.

"We are called Angels of Death for a reason."

"Why you think you need **my** help is still a mystery." Lysippus examines the nearly dissolved Grimm.

"Local knowledge is always an appreciable addition."

"Well, at least Steeleburg will be happy."

The Astartes and their companion march out of the forest in short order. A village in the distance begins to come into view. The village of Steeleburg was named as such for the family that originally settled the area and laid down the first walls. Surrounded by a Lake on two sides, the walls were suitably sturdy for a settlement this close to the outlying forests. Yet much like Black Crag, the outer works were battered by Grimm assault. A Thunderhawk gunship was parked some ways away in front of the walls. As the squads approached the large entrance gates, a young barrel-chested man popped his heads over the ramparts. He smiles and chuckles to himself.

"Did you kill **all** of them?"

"Yes, the forest has been cleansed."

The simple answer Lysippus gives the man makes his expression falter into one of disbelieving shock. Lucas crosses his arms over his chest.

"Looks like you owe me that horse now, dont'cha Felix?"

"…Yeah." He seems dazed and unsure of himself. "Whoever you guys are, thank you so much. It'll be nice to not worry about the Grimm while we forage in there."

Joachim holds up a hand. "No thanks are necessary, it is our duty."

And with that, the Astartes and their lone hunter board the waiting Thunderhawk. Lucas complains once more about the oversized seats and jarring speeds the craft can manage. The clicks signifying many are chuckling at him do not help his complaints. As the gunship begins to lift off, a singular being observes them from the recently cleared woods. Red eyes fixate on the retreating gunship. Gradually, they blend back into the undergrowth with a vicious snarl.

 **Trespassers**

It has plans to make.

-x-

His first steps on Remnant had been utterly jarring.

The great storm of the Warp was merely a smooth ripple within the planet's confines. The power of the Empyrean flowed yet flowed filtered and calmly. For the first time in many, many years was Solomon able to relax ever so slightly against the near-constant war against the Archenemy. This was only the first of many surprises this world had in store for him.

Solomon sat on the smooth stone floor of the chamber, kneeling. Before the Epistolary was a small metal table set in the center of the otherwise spartan room. In one corner however, a mass of twisted matter ranging from slowly melting ice to embers and spikes of earth lay in a heap. Upon the table was a singular bauble. This substance had been only passingly reported by the initial teams, yet Solomon had nearly boarded a Drop Pod after reading the after-action reports. He had found it.

The crystal was the length of a human's ring finger and about as thick. It chimed with barely perceptible currents of potential energy that were scarcely perceptible to his brethren, yet he could hear them so very clearly. The local village headman had called it Dust, this variety was known as the Earth type. The exceedingly nervous man had remarked how Black Crag's mine produced it as well as a few other varieties.

They mined crystallized energy from the earth like common ore.

Reaching out with the force of his own psychic will, Solomon pours a sliver of his own power into the crystal. Almost immediately the material started to react to his probing. Random tendrils of solid stone simply appeared to be converted from the makeup of the crystal itself. A touch more power saw the crystal violently shake as all its matter was transmuted into simple, inert stone. Solomon picked the head sized lump of rock up in his hand. It felt like nothing more than a simple stone one would find anywhere. Only a bare trace of psychic residue that was almost all his doing was the only indication that it had been a crystal at some point in time.

" _Questions, questions, questions…"_

Nature's Wrath made incarnate was what they called it, the substance's discovery had helped tip the balance in their war against the Grimm. Ah yes…

The Grimm

Encountering his first one felt like fighting those damnable machines once more, simply without the overwhelming pressure born of the Warp spirits. Rather than the spaceborne monstrosity, it felt hollow in nearly every aspect that should have denied its right to exist. And yet there was something within all of them that itched at his mind. But focusing on this aspect was hard to do when the creatures were trying to rip one's head off. Luckily, Warp lightning affected them as much as any other xenos. Deciding that he had ruined enough of the chamber, Solomon righted himself and turned to leave. The stars above were clearly visible on this night, an almost beautiful serenity.

All around the sounds of construction blared and weaved under and over each other. Techmarines were ordering around Serfs and Servitors as they constructed the various buildings a proper Firebase needed to operate. In one corner, a bank of hangars was having their roofs raised by utility powerlifters while specialized components were being soldered by the mechadendrites of a Techmarine. Temperamental plasma generators were humming to life as various entities carefully managed and monitored their power output and any fluctuations. He gave them a wide berth, being vaporized by a generator explosion was something the Lorekeeper could do without.

The walls were thick, made of ferrocrete and prefabricated aboard the _Sinai._ Tarantula Sentry Turrets of many configurations kept their unblinking eyes trained on the outside. Roving patrols of Astartes were supplemented by Combat Serfs trained for garrison work the Marines themselves were too preoccupied to do. Solomon remembered the first few times the Grimm had deigned to approach the fortress.

They didn't try much anymore.

Changing his course, He headed for one of the more complete hangars inside the complex. Passing the motor pool brought in the sight of several Mars and Deimos Pattern Predators. While many Deimos variants were available to the Chapter, the Mars Patterns were somewhat easier to repair despite their Techmarine's prodigious skills. Only proven pilots were allowed advancement to the more ancient vehicles. Lingering for just a minute, Solomon presses on to the now suitably noisy hangar.

Inside the structure is a group of several Techmarines. The center of the structure is dominated by the large Mechanicus craft recently transported in. Suitable of the brotherhood of Mars was the advanced nature of its design. It easily out massed their Thunderhawks by a wide margin. Designed for long range excursions, this Explorator scout vessel was capable of inter-system travel should the time come. And from its presence upon Remnant, that purpose had been tested to the limit. Near the craft, Ehud was exiting a massive side hatch built into it.

"Have you learned anything from it yet?"

Ehud turned and nodded his head at the Epistolary. "Greetings Solomon, I have retrieved its data recorder intact. Processing the security footage is nearly complete." The Techmarine's oculi whirred. "Apparently, a group of Techpriests absconded with the ship and went into stasis to await the journey across the system. The cameras on the outside were all destroyed by Grimm." His tone had taken a graver tone at the last remark.

Solomon stroked his chin pensively. "Send your full findings over to the command center's datalink when you can, I shall leave you to your work."

The command center itself was a rather slapdash affair of covered tents and ad-hoc ferrocrete buildings. Communications dishes and antennae protruded from the various structures in the central building. Walking inside brought one into the center of a military bureaucratic storm. Serfs rushed about with data reports clutched in their hands. Servitors used their mechanical augmentations to seal metal plates into position or run cabling to vital components. Techmarines were performing rites of calibration and activation on the main network hub that would connect them with their fleet's sensor grid.

Solomon strode through all of this towards a set of heavy double doors at the far wall. Two veterans stood as honor guard on either side. Neither moved a muscle as the Lorekeeper entered. The central command chamber was a much quieter region. A circular table that while much smaller than the one present aboard the _Sinai_ , served the same role here. Immanuel was being given a report on the Firebase's construction schedule while Malchus was directing the stocking of the planet side Armorium. Judah and Tobias were both at their Captain's sides. A gaggle of Chaplains, Techmarines, and other officers were all present among the throng.

"Solomon, did your experiments bear fruit?"

While Codiciers were ostensibly more known to reside on the ships, Malachi was no slouch when it came to open combat. His Armor was less decorated, yet the vaunted robes remained a constant between the two psykers. A Force Sword and Plasma Pistol were mag-locked to his side.

"It is as if the powers of a psyker were crystallized and stored for later use. If even half of what those villagers told me was true, this could be very useful to the Imperium."

Malachi seemed impressed. "And what of the recovered substances from Verdas?"

"If it truly only functions while in atmosphere…those trials will have to come later. None of them knew much about the substance's physiochemical properties other than its practical applications, so a native expert would be beneficial."

"And…the anomalies?"

The souls of the humans on this world of Remnant were an oddity to behold. While not psykers, there seemed to be a…brightness that coated them in much the same way the planet has. The Aura spoken of by the two defenders was something Solomon truly had not seen before. An Aura was usually the unconscious projection of a soul into the Warp, but this Aura was much more active and tangible. It seemed to exude inner power **out** from the soul rather than drawing from the Warp.

Solomon threw up his arms. "Your guess is as valid as mine is. Something happened long ago on this planet that even I cannot begin to fathom. Anyway, I must confer with the Captains."

The twin commanders had gone from intrigued to concerned as Solomon's recounting of the Techmarine's report. Immanuel grunted in dry amusement.

"It seems that my theory is proved correct, if the Grimm were truly mindless…why would the cameras be destroyed?" Solomon nodded in agreement.

"I must concur, Brother-Captain, the question now is what our next step is?"

Malchus cleared his throat.

"This world has never seen the light of the Imperium, it holds such treasures and terrors. I believe we should contact the wider society of this planet."

"That could prove to be…difficult." Immanuel said pensively. "We are warriors, not diplomats. Once Chapter Command relays us their response is when wider contact should be made." Malchus furrowed his brow.

"Brother-Captain, we are in a fortuitous position on the outskirts of civilization here, but they are bound to discover us eventually. Inaction is unwise. Their aid may be useful in our search."

"Have the Scouts divined a trail yet?" Immanuel asked to a nearby Techmarine.

"Yes Captain, Bezalel and Tellus have traced the Grimm's path into what the locals call the 'Deep Woods'. However, their last reports have indicated a need to fall back. The concentration of Grimm is too high for stealth to be a practical option."

Malchus hummed at this news. "It appears a coordinated assault on the infested area is required. Solomon, has any…Solomon?

The Lorekeeper was perfectly rigid. His eyes were open wide. His armor trembled slightly as he raises his hand to rub into his temple. Malachi had to support himself on a wall, gasping as if all the air had been sucked from his lungs. Slowly turning to face one another, the Lorekeepers looked through their psyker senses at the new disturbance.

"Have Elhanan run an orbital scan…NOW!"

-x-

They march in complete silence through the gnarled roots of building sized trees. A procession of Grimm is usually a raucous affair, the wind carrying their howls for miles and heralding their coming. But not today. Today the myriad forms of the enemies of man march as soldiers locked in ranks.

Eyes once full of animalistic fury are instead focused into a mockery of discipline. The black sea parts around a large rock jutting up from the spongy soil as a great gray blade. Upon this rock, a singular Grimm perches itself amidst the horde. A crown of twisted antlers bedecks a head resembling the skull of a dog. Long, gangly limbs end in vicious talons. Moss and lichen carpet its bone plating in a thick layer. Yet what sets it apart from its brethren is what it carries within itself.

The spark of an ancient elder intellect.

The beast looks back into the darkness of the forest at a far larger being shrouded in the nighttime mist. Piercing eyes bore into it like a silent judge. Like a butcher examining a cut of meat. After an interlude, the concealed being simply nods its head and stalks back off towards the inner forest. The Wendigo refocuses its gaze back on the not so distant tree line. It has a mission, it has a purpose. Its creators would not be disappointed. The filth that dared to trespass on its hunting grounds would be eradicated. A drooling maw opens itself to relish in the bloodlust.

Its howling scream is the torture of animals and the cry of madmen.

-x-

Ozpin takes a sip from his mug.

The rain comes down in heavy sheets on the imposing tower, waves of water sliding down the window. It is well into the nighttime hours, but the Headmaster is still wide awake. The reports he reads on the upcoming Vytal festival barely registers in his mind. He can't sleep. Not after feeling what he has. The first and silenced breach weighed heavily on his psyche. The second breach still tingles in his mind's eye.

The scream of the burning cradle feels like ice crystals digging into his brain.

The ancient being considers if he has simply ensured a faster death for his world.

Swiveling his chair to face the impressive view from his window, Ozpin takes in the sight of the illuminated city across the small cove. He banishes the doubts he has lingering within and steels himself for the dark days ahead. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. He has thrown down the gauntlet in such a catastrophic way that his enemy cannot ignore. The puppets may meet their match, but the outsiders will certainly bring panic, to say nothing of what might come after.

Steepling his fingers, the reincarnate continues to stare out at Vale.

"Alea Iacta Est"

-x-

 **Codex**

 **Levantus: A warm and windy world, it is the prime recruitment source of the Ashen Heralds. Feudal kingdoms and city states fight petty wars over a thousand petty reasons. Nations rise, fall, fragment, and rise again under the careful watch of the Heralds. The most prospective children compete for the honor of selection by their enigmatic masters. As many of their Serfs came from the world, Marines recruited from them are still in touch with their culture. Any recruited from blood tithes may suffer a period of chafing in this regard.**

 **Organization: The Ashen Heralds have several deviations with the Codex Astartes. The Boarding Squads are known to be some of the most notable without technically breaching the dictates. Chaplains are known to have dedicated honor guards that are supposed to evoke an ancient formation from their shrouded past. Due to their distance from most Imperial forces and their fleet-based lifestyle, it is speculated that they may have more than the standard thousand. This has never been definitively proven, and any investigations into such matters are quickly terminated by orders of Inquisitor Abramus Lorriman**

 **A/N: End of the introductory arc. Stuff gets heated after this. Sorry if you wanted more action and if it seemed kinda meandering, but I just needed a chapter to establish the initial position before all hell breaks loose.**


	6. Chapter 5

Memory and Fate

Chapter 5: The Encroaching Horde

"The currency of the Imperium is ultimately its people; lives must not be spent profligately." – Immanuel, 4th Captain

-x-

The Lorekeeper stood in the middle of the blackened ground, his armor almost blending into the charred landscape. All around him, smoke and steam and ash flittered about like snowflakes drifting in a winter breeze. Char shuffled and crunched beneath his heavy boots, life turned into simple piles of carbon. His eyes were closed while his inner sight probed outwards. After a short amount of time, they opened. Solomon Arrikain's piercing gaze fell upon the distant and gnarled woods miles off in the distance. He could feel it now. He could feel something staring back at him.

He could feel its hate.

-x-

 _ **One week prior…**_

"Are these reports accurate? Unembellished?"

General Ironwood flipped through the various papers in the binder with increasing concern etched on his face. Ozpin sat behind his desk, tapping his fingers on the clear glass overlaying the clockwork. Glynda Goodwitch sat next to the general, her usually stern countenance ever-present on her face. Setting the binder down, Ironwood clasped his hands together and leaned on the desk. Ozpin cut him off before Ironwood could inquire again.

"There is no doubt, the Green River Frontier Region is experiencing the largest incursion we've seen in some years. Over thirteen villages have gone dark so far if the reports from Grey Pass are accurate. And at a most unfortunate time."

The Breach had increased Grimm attacks all over the Kingdom of Vale. The aftermath meant that most of the trained Hunters were already dealing with other incursions elsewhere. The often-remote locale of the Frontier and many city-born Hunters refusing to live there meant response times were rather poor. It was an unspoken fact that the Frontier folk were expected to look after themselves. But this time was different.

"So, you understand why I am pushing to deploy the students, we simply can't spare anyone else. The registered Hunters are all currently on missions."

Glynda shifted in her seat. "I understand your reasoning, and I don't doubt their ability, but…" She sighed and looked at a data tablet holding a roster of names.

"I'd send my soldiers in but redeploying the fleet could take weeks." Ironwood mused.

Ozpin tented his fingers. "We have no easy answers in this matter, I do not make this decision lightly." Ironwood fished his Scroll out of a pocket.

"On the note of the Frontier, what do you make of the rumors?"

Showing his Scroll to the Headmaster, the pictures that appeared were grainy and hard to make out. A large unidentified aircraft streaking high in the sky. A glimpse of some large bipedal robot armed with a massive gun. Treaded vehicles that seemed ill-suited for the forests of Sanus. The pictures had been ostensibly reported to be taken from many regions of the Frontier by a lone freelance journalist. Gossip columns and tabloids were the only outlets covering it, for now. Ozpin adopted a look of perfect calm, eyes half-lidded and focused on the images displayed.

"It seems that is what our students will have to find out for themselves." He had slipped into the tone that only his 'inner circle' could catch on to. "I will handle the deployments personally, you may leave."

The two seated across from the Headmaster shared a look before getting up to leave. Halfway to the elevator, Ozpin stopped them.

"When Qrow finally deigns to return to civilization, we need to have a discussion. And yes James, one of _those_ discussions."

The two left the meeting with uneasy eyes.

-x-

Above the sapphire and viridian orb sat the Astartes fleet, voidborne bastions designed for the solitary occupation of war. The hallowed Battle Barge had innumerable weapons studded along its massive hull. Yet the Bombardment Cannons lay dormant even as their barrels stayed trained on the surface below. While Elhanan commanded the ship, only the orders of the Captains could bring the wrath of his _Sinai_ to bear on the surface of an inhabited world.

The half machine veteran tapped an iron digit against his cheek as tactical readouts flashed across his cybernetic eyes. Hangar clearance authorizations, orbit-to-surface munitions requests, wide-band sensory sweeps. This was perhaps what Elhanan hated most about being a Shipmaster, the tedium. The withered Marine's crinkled face warmed as he recalled his last mission in line combat, leading a squad to destroy a cadre of Dark Eldar over a war-torn Hive World. That faded when an update reached his machine uplink. With a thought, the Shipmaster observed the status of the battle below. Although to call it a battle may have been a bit generous.

Icons representing their bestial foe were superimposed over the far-flung terrain, while those representing civilians were either evacuating East or…Elhanan did not want to ponder on that any further. Across the battlespace, separated by hundreds of miles were kill-teams carrying out dozens of missions in and around the settlements of this region. Refugee tallies and evacuation data sheets danced across his lenses like fireworks. From orbit, the battles seemed so abstract, so far away and reduced to such simple statistics. But the Marine still had the eidetic memory endemic to all his brethren, he knew to see past the hololithic illusion. As he shifted his focus to ready another sensor scan, he paused to regard the thin streams of evacuees fleeing the oncoming tide, to those where the enemy had already reached. The icons of the Grimm overtook another village.

Elhanan gazed on at the misery playing out in front of his eyes minute by minute.

He sometimes wished he had kept his natural ones.

' _Emperor grant them peace in their final moments.'_

-x-

The sound of bells, the screaming of the doomed.

The roar of blood-mad monsters.

A town is dying.

Death had come to Steeleburg. Buildings were toppled and shattered by the forms of rampaging Grimm. Fires burning uncontrollably through the village, the air tasted of smoke and seared flesh. Blood ran through the cobbled streets like a red river. Bodies were torn apart by Grimm enjoying a ravenous feast of human flesh. The walls had long fallen to the predation of the larger breeds. No defenders remained alive and any humans left were as cattle to the slaughterhouse. They die in their droves, they are cut down without remorse. Over it all, a lanky figure shrieks its victory to the smoke-filled sky. Clutched in his talons was the severed head of Felix Steele.

Packs of Beringels and Beowolves rush through the streets, smashing wooden barricades aside with brute force. What few weapons the shell-shocked villagers possess are a garden hose against a wildfire. Scraps that had once been pieces of homes laid down by their grandparents are torn to pieces by the monsters. The screaming reaches a crescendo before it peters out into the crackling of fire and collapse of homes. There is a dark presence in the air, it suffocates the senses and crushes the heart.

Meagre rivercraft trying to ply their way down the waterway were seized and overturned. Their occupants either drowning in the reddening water or set upon by Grimm. Through it all, Griffons and Nevermore dived down at any straggler unlucky enough to be caught out in the open. There were very few. The Wendigo ceased in its exultation to take in the true scope of horror its dark thralls had reaped. The destruction of man and all his creations filled the ancient monster with a sense of burning ecstasy and sadistic glee. But it soon fades back into the yearning bloodlust. Dropping the head, it steps off the mound of corpses serving as its platform. It has more human filth to destroy.

It has more trespassers to kill.

The lifeblood slipping through its claws is not enough however, it will never be enough. It bounds on bony legs through the branches of withered trees after the fleeing villagers. Their fear taints the air in an intoxicating aroma of rage and excitement. Rage born from their obvious inferiority. Excitement at the thoughts of rending organs and cracking bone. The Wendigo salivates at the prospect as it pounces onto a fleeing man. Razor sharp claws dig into his back, tearing apart his spine and freezing his face into an expression of pure shock. Then it indulges while its pack runs down the few others.

Knife-like fangs lunge forth and slice apart the still warm flesh. The meat slides down its throat in a demented purr of incalculable ecstasy. A trigger goes off in its mind. Claws lash out in a frenzied madness to scoop out as much flesh as possible. Intestines are ripped out in long red spools and bitten apart. Curious Grimm are driven back by wild shrieks and slashing talons. Bones are broken open for marrow. The skull is cracked apart and the brain devoured. All that remains of the man is a blotchy smear on the grass and dirt. The Wendigo screeches in brutal triumph, covered in blood. Its moment of release is interrupted by a sharp pain within its skull. A presence reasserts itself. It puts the creature back on the path. It reminds it of the price of failure. Wincing in agony, the Wendigo chuffs and sprints back into the elder pack at the center of the rampaging horde.

The presence fades.

The bloodlust returns.

It always returns.

-x-

Ragged forms scamper through the tangled undergrowth like the hounds of the underworld were on their heels. In this case, it was likely a more literal observation. Pieces of cloth are torn away by brambles and low-hanging branches, yet the panting survivors press on deeper into the foliage. Off in the distance, a dim hazy glow illuminates the smoke rising from their quaint village.

Klein's Garden was perhaps not the closest to the great woods that served as a borderline between humanity and the Grimm, but it was close enough. Steeleburg had burnt almost wholly to the ground by the time the townsfolk had realized just what was coming their way. The walls had nearly fallen when the evacuation had begun. Separating into various small splinter groups, the dwindling survivors desperately try to outrun the advance, time bought from the trapped citizens still being slaughtered within the broken streets.

They wouldn't last much longer.

Karen panted as she led her group through the woods along the tributary. Around her were only a scant few survivors she managed to pull from their homes before the gate had been trampled down. Brian, her younger brother clutched a rifle and scanned the interior. Perry, her uncle and a carpenter of many years trailed just behind him. A young couple whose names she did not know clung to each other like glue. A gaggle of children almost certainly orphans or otherwise separated from their parents. There had been more, but either wounds or the vain desire to reunite with lost family had separated them. Regardless of that, they followed the river East. There was no conversation, no questioning or complaints, they all knew what giving into negativity meant.

Then a howl broke through the trees.

Faces went wide and taught with a bitter, mournful realization of certain facts. Children taught lessons repeatedly still whimpered as their little feet pressed on through the brush. Perry and Brian slowly made their way to the rear of the small group of survivors. Guns loaded with what ammunition they had left were cocked for the inevitable arrival. Karen drew a small hunting knife, blade perfect for skinning game. Her weary eyes darted to the children and back to the knife several times. She considers doing something. She considers it quite a bit. In the end however, she realizes that she just isn't strong enough and shudders as the knife slides back in its sheath. It would just bring them faster. Though their arrival comes not long afterward.

The Beowolves bound through the woods like it was open ground. The reports of gunfire issuing from the rifles echo through the trees. While these were the youngest and therefore the least armored of their brethren, the mere fact that they had caught up to them was as clear as the tolling of bells. Some go down with a few well-placed rounds while others take quite a few. With almost all their ammunition expended, the small hunting pack is dispatched. They all know how pointless it is.

The group passes through a small break in the trees while the corpses of the Grimm still disintegrate behind them. The gunshots have unfortunately attracted the rest of the pack's attention. They consider wading into the water, however they realize they would just be slowed down. Karen ushers the children as far ahead as she can before the rest of the pack arrives. The trees come alive with the sounds of beasts and from every direction they come closing in. Caught in the open, the Grimm pour out of the forest in a sea of claws. Karen shields herself with her arms and curls herself into a small ball on the ground. A few gunshots come forth, but she knows it's the end.

Then an explosion deafens her to the world

It feels as if a volcano has just erupted in the middle of the clearing. The heat feels like the town forge from only a few inches away. A piercing ring of tinnitus drowns out all sound as it all becomes a blur. Yet even through that, her core reverberates with the clattering of concussive shots. A snarl accompanying the sound of ripping flesh coats her in a slick sheen of fluids. She dares not open her eyes throughout the tempest. Gradually, her hearing reasserts itself and the world comes rushing back in. Karen opens her eyes.

Standing over her is what could only be described as a wraith born of the essence of the night itself. Its outline blurs with the waving of a shimmering cloak that covers much of its body. It stands heads and shoulders above any in their group. Haunting viridian lenses rake over her huddled body with silent and unknowable judgement. A vicious growling blade slowly runs with slick gore and evaporating blood while a boxy rifle hangs off his waist. The shattered corpses of the Beowolves lie in pools of gore all around the clearing.

The wraith bends down to meet Karen's eyes. She idly marvels how much it resembles the fairy tales of giants her grandmother used to read to her. Seeing her face reflected in the lenses, her thoughts are interrupted as a staticky voice emanates from the mask covering much of the face.

"You are confused, frightened…this is normal. I appear to you as a vision of death made flesh, and you would be right to think so. But we are here to help." Slowly inclining her head, she sees more of the wraiths looming over the shell-shocked refugees. The children sniffle and hold their ears, but some brave souls stare in awe at their saviors. "Those were just the juvenile hunting packs; the main horde will be closing in very soon. You must come with us if you have any hope of survival."

The wraith extends his hand downward to the ragged girl. He looks strong enough to rip an Ursa in half. Still trying to process what had just happened, her mind comes to a quicker conclusion when the far-off howls begin once again. Hesitantly, she reaches her own hand to meet the massive paw. It envelops hers completely and firmly, a pull that might have seemed gentle to the wraith instead tugging her up off the forest floor. Karen decides that her shock would have to hit later when she was safe.

The wraith places his massive hand on her shoulder. "I am Bezalel." He stows his blade and retrieves the rifle.

"And we will guide you through this darkness."

-x-

The Thunderhawk roars as it ascends into the night air. The villagers too old or sick or young to adequately defend the walls rocket off into the distance. The backwash sends the innumerable purity seals and parchment attachments fluttering around wildly. Joachim aims and traces a line of violence across the wave of red eyes and bone white teeth. His Combi-Bolter's Plasma Gun spews forth sizzling balls of star matter that turn frothing Grimm into half-ash, half-melted char.

A squad member nearest to him discharges his Lascannon, the blue beam thick as a normal human turns several Ursai into smoldering, cored piles of seared flesh. Another brother fires a roiling sphere of plasma into a large crowd of Beowolves, the glassy smear he carves into the earth is littered with flaming carcasses. A Multi-Melta slags a Beringel charge into melted gore. A brother wielding a venerable Proteus Pattern Missile Launcher uses its high-capacity magazine well. Spears of explosive fury detonate in and around the Grimm.

One veteran brother works a Graviton Gun that turns the weight of a Deathstalker against it, crumbling into a screeching mass of chitin and pulped tissue. Heavy Bolters, the tried and true mainstay of the Devastator, spit forth shells that pulp the onrushing mass of beasts. Seemingly hidden under the Devastator's firepower is the chattering of local machine guns and auto-rifles. Joachim spares a glance at one of the gunners to his left. Malcolm, the head of Pinehaven's militia.

"It will be ten minutes for the next Thunderhawk to arrive. We can only spare so many."

The gunner screams over the fire, though Joachim's senses pick it up crystal clear. "We'll hold! Everyone who can fight is on these walls!"

Joachim doesn't doubt it; the village's defenses are quite adequate. Thick stone walls manned by reinforced towers. Protected on three sides by massive conifers and large cliffs and glacially cut boulders. A straight and simplistic field of fire in a single direction downhill. Adequate for defense against a modest-sized horde. Joachim is slightly impressed given the resources at hand. Yet the throng approaching them was unlike any they had ever seen. Thousands strong, they had already overrun most settlements closer to the Deep Woods. It was not a question of if, but when this village would fall. Right now, vanguard swarms were racing in front of the main mass, like the one currently threatening this village.

The roars of Jump Packs cuts across the gunfire. Joachim observes Sergeant Aaron's Assault Squad descend on wings of fire into a temporary gap within the enemy's lines. Master-Crafted Chainsword in hand, he and his brethren hack apart dozens of Grimm into sprays of blood and severed organs. Those in vicinity not crushed by their impact are carved into ribbons by shrieking chain blades or executed by bolt pistols. They retreat into the confines of the settlements before their foes can regroup. The horde does not stop, but their charge has been blunted under the guns and blades of the two squads. The few Grimm that reach the town's outskirts arrive stunned, coming in small clusters instead of a wave. The next Thunderhawk touches down in a skidding thud.

Both men and superhumans knew it would be a long night.

-x-

Not all Frontier settlements are as heavily fortified or trained to the same standard.

Some are the brainchild of naïve opportunists swayed by tales of untapped resources. Others are corporate-sponsored affairs probing for profit. Many more are safe havens or waystations for the less reputable elements of society. But no matter their origin, the first large incursion is typically the death of them. The storm coming from the forest has already swept away the more foolish and unprepared used to periodic raids and hunting packs. Walls built to a poorer standard that would crumble after the first few waves are not worth defending. Luckily for the villagers, air power is not the only thing at the Marine's disposal.

Heavy tracks churn up the packed earth and the rarer cobblestone marking the paths in and around the Frontier. Advanced suspension systems and mighty engines, alongside dozer blades and ramming spikes shove aside any fallen debris caused by nature or the Grimm. The refugee convoy snakes its way through miles of hostile land, beset on all sides by the black beasts. Razorback transports and Rhinos of both Mars and Deimos patterns lay down suppressive fire into the adjoining woods. Pintle mounted weapons and swiveling turrets keep the fastest Grimm at bay. While their claws cannot penetrate the hardened armor, the reduction in speed would allow the more gigantic varieties a better shot. Brother Jered will not allow this to happen.

He is a gunner operating the Multi-Melta alongside the Combi-Bolter mounted to the Deimos Rhino. Each depression of the firing stud sends out a torrent of thermal destruction which ignites whole sections of the forest as well as slagging a multitude of Grimm. The chattering twin-linked Bolters slaved to the Cogitator systems swivel and target enemies of opportunity all around the vehicle. The middle of the armored column is where the Rhinos are, protected by the Razorbacks. Jered reflects on the fact that the remaining civilians can all fit within five Rhinos.

New Prospect had been the result of a Vale-based corporation's gamble on the Frontier's hidden bounties. Unable to compete with the other more established Dust companies, they paid a few hundred employees to stake a claim on a patch of land surveyed for its mineral wealth. What it hadn't been surveyed for, however, were any real natural defenses other than a few steep rises. The proximity to the Deep Woods hadn't helped matters. By the time The Ashen Heralds arrived, less than sixty remained alive. Many were wounded. They cower in the holds of the transports racing away from the path of the horde. Jered's helmet buzzes to life, signals from the assigned air evacuation detail.

The forest gives way to tall grass and sparse saplings. On the other side near another patch of woods, the APCs halt their advance and begin to unload. The Grimm burst from the cover of the woods, their varied forms all clamoring to rip open the transports. Yet their abandonment of the forest was considered. From overhead, twin forms scream in low, weapon mounts swiveling into place and spooling up.

Fire Raptor Gunships are a specialized variant of the august Storm Eagles. While lacking the ability to transport any Marines into combat, they fulfill a much more direct and aggressive role. Utilizing their multiplicity of weapons systems to clear landing zones and cover Drop Pod assaults, Fire Raptors could turn whole swathes of enemy ranks into rough chunks of metal and flesh. The Fire Raptors strafing the horde live up to their reputation.

Twin-linked Avenger Bolt Cannons churn out a dizzying array of firepower. Grimm of all sizes are torn to shreds from the withering trails of heavy Bolt shells. In ball mounted cupolas, superhuman senses swivel quad-mounted bolters or twin-linked Autocannons to pick off targets of opportunity on the ground or snap back up to sweep away flocks of airborne Grimm. Hellstrike missiles guided by Logis-Engines shriek from mounted berths to detonate and cremate the bone plating of the largest Grimm. Lascannons hiss and spew deadly beams of coherent light which scythe down whole rows of the beasts into smoking puddles of black gore.

Storm Eagles coming in behind unleash their Vengeance Launchers into the horde, throwing up a dazzling array of explosions. The traumatized survivors are loaded up into the gunships, many are wounded. With machine-like precision, the crews of the APCs roll out as the Fire Raptors devastate this tendril of the horde. Jered and his compatriots receive another burst of vox traffic. The boxy vehicles shift course on the path, another settlement in need of evacuation.

-x-

"The mine fields have all been detonated, they will be upon us soon."

Olus acknowledged the transmission and paused to look out at the flat land in front of the settlement. Crown's Point, recently liberated from the bandits, was under threat. Their formidable walls and defenses were somewhat stunted by the still acclimating populace. However, the open ground would deny the Grimm cover as they swept down from a valley mouth. Sure enough, the first Grimm began to appear from the night. The quicker members of their brood sprinted towards the walls. However, the defenses of the Point were especially designed for this.

Flashes light up the night like fireworks. Dust shells detonate in multicolored explosions, interspersed with more common explosive and shrapnel shells. The quick-firing cannons were serviced by crewman that swapped out the expended shells with the rapidity only an encroaching horde could bring. Former farmers and craftsman hauled ammunition and marked targets to the best of their ability. The shells and heavy machine guns cut the lightly-armored Beowolves and smaller airborne Grimm to shreds.

Then the larger breeds charged into the fray. Yet despite all of this, the Assault Squad lining the walls seemed to be the only of their number present, seemed to only be providing a token effort. The guns on the ramparts opened fire, taking down numerous Grimm. But even the Point's defenses could only barely stem the tide. The most ancient and experienced Alphas and their lesser kin congregated on the open plain. Many took several shells to crack the hardened bone plating and thick muscle built by decades of survival. It was at that singular moment that Olus gave a simple command

A flash of light sounded forth from the shadow of their bastion. Searing beams of brilliant cobalt cut down dozens of Grimm in rapid succession. Heavy Bolters fired in unison to bite into their numbers. And from behind the settlement came a large vehicle.

Most of Vale's territory was carpeted in thick forests, which made the vaunted heavy armor of the Chapter difficult to utilize. Yet, under the guidance of their superhuman crew, the tangled greenery littering the lighter forests might as well been paved ground. The denser portions were certainly a major barrier, but the floodplains and grassland near the Green River provided a good terrain for open combat.

The Deimos Annihilator swiveled its rounded turret around to target another mass of Grimm. The twin barrels expel another coherent beam into the mass, vaporizing whatever the light touched. It is shadowed by a squadron of Deimos Destructors, and a single Infernus variant. Rhino and Razorback transports follow their more armored brethren, turret mounted weapons unleash a withering brace of shells into the stunned horde. Sponson mounted heavy bolters drench the Grimm with bolt rounds. The Infernus uses its Flamestorm Cannon to melt the sinew and bone of the Grimm to bubbling tar-like goo. Dozens are cut down every second. The horde stumbles.

Land Speeders of many patterns screech across the open ground and lay into the Grimm with their mounted guns and missiles. Unfettered by the forest the skimmer craft dance around the air and engage the flying Grimm shadowing the main body of the horde. A roaring Thunderhawk loaded for war comes in low. The numerous weapon mounts spring to life and rake across the Grimm. Then the payload under its wings are released. Saturation bombs including vicious incendiaries drop in a purification spread. Holes are torn in the lines as the horde begins to break apart.

Behind the vehicles, the transports disgorge their deadly cargo. Olus and his squad rise on wings of fire to leap into the fray. The Power Fist pulverizes the torso of a supremely confused Ursa. A line of Heralds advances in step with their armor. They are out massed by their engines of war but are no less speedy, and no less deadly. The Grimm are thrown into disarray, caught off guard by this unexpected force. Then the shock begins to fade, and the charge gathers momentum once again. An ambitious Alpha Beringel leaps to the forefront and roars a guttural battle cry.

The whine of a charging weapon draws its attention for the barest of moments.

Near the back of the armored formation, A Deimos Predator mounted with an esoteric weapon aims dead center at the horde. The conical barrel of its weapon hisses and sparks with energies utterly incomprehensible to the ape-like Grimm. Then it fires. A lance of crackling energy screams from the Conversion Beamer. It builds mass with every air particle it annihilates along the way, growing with destructive power. It passes by the Alpha by scant meters before impacting a larger Ursa. Then it **detonates**

The center of the horde simply ceases to exist as an eye-searing explosion of pure energy born through the interaction of antimatter with the physical universe rips through it. Any semblance of order the Grimm once had is shattered as their instincts to preserve themselves outweighs their bloodlust and the voice in their head. It begins with the Beowolves, the weaker cannon fodder bolting back out of the entrance to the plain. Only the more monstrous Grimm madly continue to assault the gathered host still pumping ordnance into their ranks. As the last of them are hunted by pursuing air power, the commander of the Beamer equipped tank takes in the scene.

Uriah works through several rituals of cooling and placation to the Machine Spirits of his assigned Executioner. The Heavy Conversion Beamer was a sophisticated and poorly understood weapon that usually required the rigorous calculation and power of a Techmarine. The vehicle mounted ones were more powerful but had to be fired while stationary to not disrupt the path of the antimatter beam. The Machine Spirit of his tank eventually reached equilibrium with its internal processes. The Techmarine wheels his vehicle back into position with the armored task force.

-x-

Solomon saw it all as a running sea of black oil interspersed with pinpricks of harsh crimson light.

But instead of formless chaos, there was something tethering the ocean together. Like a leash threading its way across the formless mass, it directed its fury in a single direction. Every drop in the ocean moved with bestial instinct, but also with direction and purpose. Angry red electricity emanating from a single node among the thousands of Grimm pulsed with the beat of a black heart. The Epistolary paces through the furiously active firebase.

Marines were boarding and disembarking gunships at breakneck pace. Squads waited but a few minutes to restock their ammunition and the Techmarines to perform minor maintenance rituals. Then they were dispatched to the next settlement in need of aid against the encroaching Grimm. On the far side of the firebase in a relatively open area, another odder spectacle was taking place. Marines and serfs were organizing and cataloging the stream of refugees coming in by land or by air. The Serfs were taking care of most of the interpersonal work, for obvious reasons.

Though confused and in many cases injured, the refugees kept a semblance of order amidst their superhuman saviors. Temporary tent shelters were erected on the open courtyard to accommodate the evacuees. Serfs passed out blankets, water, and rations drawn from their own stock as the nutrient blocks the Astartes subsisted on was…unpalatable for the normal human diet, to say the least. Solomon allowed himself as small chuckle as he watched several curious children clamoring around a thoroughly befuddled Marine. Yet he continued to the command center.

If it had been chaotic before, the rapid movements inside looked as if a Vortex Grenade had detonated. Marching through the serfs and servitors, as well as the ocean of parchment littering one floor, Solomon entered the command chamber. Unlike before, this room was suitably less noisy. Only Immanuel and Judah were present as all the others were either with Captain Malchus at his own firebase or out doing their respective duties. Looking up from a tactical hololith, Immanuel tersely greeted the Lorekeeper.

"Has your scrying confirmed your hypothesis?"

Solomon nods. "Malachi as well, the presence guiding the horde is steering it straight towards the large settlement. The natural barriers are acting as a funnel would. They only have one place left to go that we do not defend."

"Where is this controlling presence?"

Solomon hums and furrows his brow "It is hard to tell, the mass shifts and collapses into one another. Thankfully, it is more of a subtle push than an overriding directive if my scrying is to be trusted."

Both Marines glanced over at a large holo-pict of the region, marked up my colored regions. Blinking dots represented the myriad combat missions both companies were engaged in. The region had been split in two, with the 4th taking the southern half. A black zone demarcated the Deep Woods and zones totally lost to the horde, unfeasible to find survivors within. It was already uncomfortably expansive. Red regions were active combat evacuations meeting the very tip of the larger force. Green were zones declared 'safe'. Some were villages behind a large ridgeline the locals referred to as the Spine. Crown's Point was one such settlement. The largest of such green zones however, was a settlement that marked the major entrance to the region. Grey Pass was, as the locals had informed them, the gateway to this part of the Frontier.

The eponymous Green River began in the mountains surrounding the large town-cum-city. As air travel was riskier and more expensive, most trade goods were shipped by river traders upstream to Grey Pass. Nestled in between a gap in a smaller part of the range, it was the most heavily defended settlement for leagues around. It also now appeared to be the main target of the rampaging beasts. Immanuel contemplated this new information with a discerning look.

"This may in fact, be a blessing in disguise."

Solomon was intrigued. "How so?"

The Captain gestured to the map, hand waving over the black zone. "The Grimm are spread out over a massive front, hundreds of kilometers wide. The thousands strong horde is trundling through the valleys and forest with a noticeably slacker speed. They are also split into various packs and expeditionary vanguards. This presents a problem in relation to any offensive action or orbital bombardment. As you said, they only have a general direction that this force is imparting unto them?"

"…Correct."

"Then we shall take advantage of this." Immanuel took a seat on his command throne. "We will not squander our brother's capabilities scouring the forests one thicket at a time for dispersed packs. They have a singular objective, and so will we. While our air power harasses them, we will prepare the defenses. The horde will be drawn and broken here. Our guns will drown them in fire"

"I will call for the Honored Ancients to be readied."

Only Solomon noticed the tightening of Judah's stance at this last proclamation.

-x-

"Are you serious?"

Laura Cooper, Mayor of Grey Pass, was a decidedly level-headed person at the best of times. This was not one of those times. The expression of her freckle-faced secretary was fraught with unease as he briefed her on the rest of the responses from the support tower's communication room. They sat in an office with a full view of Grey Pass three stories up. Done up in a sophisticated yet still Frontier-esque décor, it was a testament to the vast trade wealth that flowed through the settlement's gates. The grandfather clock slowly ticking by in a corner was the only thing to break the silence.

"They sent me kids. They are sending us Gods damned kids to fight the biggest incursion in decades." Her assistant cleared his throat.

"The reason Headmaster Ozpin gave was that apparently Vale's defenses were recently breached by a group of White Fang radicals and some Grimm entered the city. The full-fledged hunters have been busy sorting out that mess."

"Perfect. Just perfect."

Tossing her dark hair back and placing the papers on the desk, Laura stood up from her leather-backed chair and stretched her muscles. "Well, let's get ready to receive them when they finally arrive, prepare the rear landing pad. I might as well check on our situation while we're at it."

Grey Pass's streets were unlike anything else in the Frontier. Nestled in between an opening rent by an ancient meteor impact, the town was on the cusp of being the first Frontier 'city'. Paved and orderly with even-spaced lanes lined with buildings. Shops and businesses selling goods of all kinds hawked their wares to the ambitious travelers seeking entry to the Frontier or vital goods to their present inhabitants. It was a drop of civilized life in an otherwise uncivilized region. However, the sophistication was only possible by the looming shadow of the defensive walls.

Rising several dozen feet into the air and stretching from one end of the miles-long Gap to another, the city walls gave an imperious impression of security. Constructed out of solid stone and wrought alloy mined from the mountains, and further fortified with modern materials the walls themselves were virtually unbreakable. Ramparts studded with automatic weapons, rapid firing cannons and even heavy military grade artillery purchased from Atlas kept the worst the Frontier had to offer at bay. Those guns were necessary in the earliest days of colonization when the Green River Region was almost uninhabitable, and in their shadow the people ventured forth.

Now however, it seemed that the opposite was happening. The neat streets were choked with the huddled masses of hundreds of refugees both fleeing the Grimm and shell-shocked survivors staggering into the great metal gateway. The intermingled voices of the distraught and displaced drowned out the normal atmosphere almost completely. Rations were being handed out by the city watch, batons necessary to keep the hungriest of the crowd in line while magistrates logged new arrivals. It was through this maelstrom that the beleaguered Mayor strode.

"Hello Laura." A youthful voice said.

Turning her head, the Mayor beheld the young Lucas Orion leaning against a brick wall. With him were several refugees from his village. Pushing off the wall, Lucas stepped over to the Mayor. His outfit was noticeably more worn in the days since his people's arrival at Grey Pass. A trained (or in this case, half-trained and self-taught) Aura wielder was a very useful asset to have.

"Hey Lucas, been out recently?"

"Yeah, found some packs but not much else."

The 'not much else' was an implication that Laura couldn't miss in his tone.

"We've saved as many as we could, I know you want to head out further but-."

Lucas held up his hand. "I get it, I'm not angry…it just leaves a bitter taste in my mouth that we have to hunker down here. The towns behind the Spine should be okay, but anyone in the valleys or plains proper is either here or…" He let the sentence hang.

Choosing to change the subject, Laura cleared her throat. "So, how's my dear old Great Uncle doing." Her surname was no coincidence. The Coopers were a deep-rooted family.

Her attempts to lighten the mood seemed to backfire when the young bowman's face tensed up. "Not good, he's been taking it pretty hard. I know he's hurt worse, but his old-fashioned stubbornness won't let him talk about it. A lot of good people we knew are dead now. Guess we got our hopes up for nothing."

A flash of realization came across the Mayor's face. "Right…you mean those Space Marines everyone's been chattering on about. I've heard a bunch of stories from the refugees. That and that crazy City-born journalist pestering everybody for interviews."

"I'd believe even the most farfetched ones; those guys killed more Grimm than we have in a decade and knocked over Lazlo in under a half-hour." Laura fidgeted on her feet at that declaration. Lazlo was always too big and too far off for a militia raid, and yet too small for Vale to give a damn about. She brought out the special Whiskey for that bastard's death.

"And they really are from space, they aren't from Remnant by a longshot." Laura finally raised an eyebrow.

"I'll reserve my judgment on **that** particular tidbit until I finally see these guys up close."

Lucas shrugged. "Suit yourself."

The two parted ways with amicable farewells. Laura made her way through the throngs of displaced Frontier folk with an air of awkward congeniality as some thanked her personally. Heading towards a large row of reinforced structures located in the heart of the city, rising several stories into the air as some of the tallest structures barring city hall. The Mayor scanned a card and nodded at several armed guards. Inside was something one usually saw in the interior cities.

Rows upon rows of crops were laid out in both soil-bound and hydroponic trays across most of the length of the structure. Rather than along the floors, the crop trays were suspended on rows reaching almost to the very top of the roof itself. An open topped dome provided sunlight while UV lights gave what extra energy the crops needed. Three of these vertical farms provided much of the food locally, allowing the city to cut back on food purchases. The prices for imports this far out were almost gouging. However, with the addition of a few thousand new, and hopefully temporary guests, the situation was much more severe.

An older gentleman in a white lab coat was taking inventory alongside several diligent assistants. He was a middle-aged gentleman with a receding hairline his combover almost hid. Rail thin and almost comically short, he didn't command much respect at first glance. Nevertheless, Dr. Acre was the man responsible for managing the carefully cultivated stock of local produce for the entire settlement's Agricultural District. He looked up from a scribble-filled clipboard to regard his new visitor.

"Ah, hello Laura. What can I do for you today?"

"How much food do we have to spare?"

The normally content features of the botanist sunk somewhat. "Enough for now, but only if these are the last of refugees we take in. Our stockpiled reserves are being raided quite thoroughly. And these crops are still at least two months from harvest."

Laura furrowed her brow. "About as good as one could expect, I guess. Would we be able to import to offset consumption?"

Acre shook his head. "Transport has been a mess in the interior. Train lines need clearing and airspace needs culling. It will be a while before we can get reliable shipments in. Not to mention the exorbitant cost of…not that I would disapprove of the aid for these people!"

The light glare fixated on him slackened as the Mayor sighed. "Sorry Doc, thanks for your input."

"Laura." She turned to face the doctor. "I know you care for these people, but I'm just trying to play devil's advocate here. I don't want to have to choose between our people and the refugees if it should ever get worse."

"I know."

Laura left the agricultural buildings with a great deal on her mind. Her next destination was a much more imposing and iconic one. A large well-fortified building near the massive walls that spanned the length of the Gap. It was a squat and thoroughly unattractive looking thing that embodied the term form over function. The Grey Pass militia headquarters was the main defensive hub for the entirety of the settlement.

Past a heavy set of reinforced alloy doors, Laura beheld the stalwart men and women given over to keeping the walls and Grey Pass safe from threats both without and within. Her eyes fell on a couple at the center of the room passing out daily orders. Mary and Ash Holden were the co-heads of the entire militia. The fair-haired Ash handled all operations outside and inside the wall while his petite wife maintained the defenses on the wall itself, and the guns with her engineering corps. The pair had been colleagues for years, so their union had been little surprise to their subordinates. Walking over to the pair, they stood upright and saluted as formally as militia commanders should to a frontier city's Mayor.

"I'm doing an inspection, we've got some backup from the Academy coming soon." Their smiles slackened as she told them who exactly was coming. "Give me an estimate of how well our defenses are."

Ash spoke up first. "Other than a few injuries, no major casualties so far. More packs have been coming into the outskirts though. If what the refugees say is true, we've got our work cut out for us. Small arms wise we're plenty stocked up, got the forges cranking out night and day to shore up the rest of the armory."

Mary chimed in. "Let me give you a tour of the wall, we've finally got those Atlesian guns up and running. Oh, and by the way~."

Laura let out a long-suffering sigh. "For the thousandth time, yes. You were right about the new guns."

' _Even though they cost us an arm and a leg_ '

The military engineer let out a satisfied hum before moving around the Mayor. "Well let's take that tour!"

To ascend to the top of walls so high up as the ones Grey Pass had was no easy feat. Several flights of steps wound their way up to the top, but they were mostly backups in case the main transport system failed. Massive bulk elevators capable of lifting dozens of people meters into the air to the ramparts were spread out over the width of the fortifications. Each was powerful enough to bring hundreds of pounds of heavy equipment to supply the guns as well as the men to operate them. Taking up the elevator on the westernmost portion of the wall, the two were greeted by the sight of a wall-top fortress.

Wide enough to march six men side-by-side, the immense space was used to its fullest capacity. Turrets that were more akin to armored bunkers jutted out from the main structure. Each was armed with several machine guns and repeating cannons on two levels. One level dealt with longer range fire while the other was more oriented to sweep out foes closer to the walls. On the top of the bunkers were anti-air flak guns designed to shred any flying threats before they managed to reach the defenders. While they were the primary means of defense, the newest additions to the walls left a big impression on any who saw them.

Artillery cannons weighing in at a few tons. Each mounted in a depression with special tracks. Capable of firing shells as big as several men of varying types and capabilities. The new stone and metalwork was still apparent when compared to the rest of the wall. Mary eagerly gushed over the various minute details of their current defenses. From the remotely activated minefields to secondary bunkers armed with flame weapons located within the wall itself. This bastion was all that guarded the Gap and the interior from the Frontier's Grimm. And that included the horde now encroaching on their position.

' _We have the best defenses in the whole region. The best walls both artificial and natural. We've dealt with attacks from large groups of Grimm before but….'_

Laura looked over at land before the wall.

And she saw a strange craft highlighted against the clear blue sky.

-x-

The chambers were as dark as they were bitterly cold. Cavernous walls shrouded in equal parts incense and shadow were barely visible over the hololithic table. Seated at the great table, figures conversed on matters recently brought to their attention.

"The reports coming in are almost too outlandish to be believed. But the word of two Captains is not to be dismissed lightly."

The voice is light and analytical. Tinged with static.

"Agreed, though this substance's composition and seeming origin on this planet is only further compounded by Epistolary Arrikain's report on the strange Warp currents. I say, the Imperium will fawn over this new discovery like nothing else"

The voice is old and smooth, yet full of crackling energy promising great power.

"The fate of the Explorators and these odd xenos beasts is more concerning to me. The touch of the Daemonic seems to be at hand."

The voice was much lighter, too light for an Astartes.

"If so, we should move in the fleet as soon as possible to forcibly exterminate these monstrosities and claim the planet for the Emperor."

The voice was seethed with righteous indignation and brimstone.

" **Enough"**

The final voice's booming, absolute tone of supremacy and leadership pierced the debate like a lance.

" **We are needed in the nearby sectors to contain a gathering Ork incursion. Once that is dealt with, we shall move on this planet should our forces be unable. The Administratum has been made aware and the Archmagos has been informed."**

None of the voices rose to challenge his declaration.

" **Still, I agree that whatever events shall transpire upon this** **Remnant may end up shaping the future of the Imperium. In what way though….only time will tell"**

 **A/N: Sorry this took so long, Writer's block and rewrites happened. College stuff too. Next chapter will be meeting of the Hunters and Marines.**


	7. Chapter 6

Memory and Fate

Chapter 6: The Defense of Grey Pass Part 1

"We Astartes were created to be the defenders of Man. Ironic that we should be so far removed from him then." -Anonymous

Space Marines as a rule of thumb are rapid deploying elite infantry designed to quickly saturate an area and eradicate all opposition. To see them go on the defensive is usually a grave omen. However, as Guilliman wrote the Codex Astartes, he understood that tactics must fit the situation at hand. The network of earthen fortifications, trenches and pre-planned kill zones in front of the city can attest to this mindset. Judah ponders on this as his Captain oversees the construction.

Thunderfire cannons operated by Techmarines of the Chapter are administered their activation rites and experimentally spooled up in preparation. Whirlwinds of both modern pattern and the revered Deimos Scorpius are angled and entrenched. Stalker and Hunter anti-air batteries train their guns and launch tubes skywards. Predators turn the barrels of their weaponry toward the distant forest and preceding floodplain. Tarantula Sentry Turrets and their missile-bearing counterparts guard spots and emplacements with their unblinking eyes. The Champion looks back towards the city proper and gazes upon a middling crowd of citizens and militia watching with muted awe.

Judah looks down to the fortifications to their chosen field of battle. A shallow slope steadily rising towards the city from the valley near the body of a slow-moving river presents a clear view from atop the rise. The telltale disturbances of mines both local and Astartes make pockmark the freshly churned soil. A large and imposing tree line off in the far distance marks the border between the relative bastion of civilization and the beginning of the true wilds. As well as the maximum range of the city's artillery.

"Quite an advantageous position to occupy versus a horde." Solomon joins the Champion in his contemplations. "It seems the people of this world truly know the value of sturdy defenses."

"You did not come here to compose a treatise on fortifications, what truly brings you here?"

The psyker sighs. "They will be due to arrive shortly before first contact, in just under a day. I know I impose a great deal for inquiring about…"

"Then do not"

…

"He does not blame you. He never has."

Judah whips his armored head around to stare deep into the icy blue eyes of the Epistolary. A fleeting image passes with horrifying clarity through Judah's mind. A bloated, corpulent mass of what was once an honor-bound Astartes. A youngblood full of vigor and hate striking true only to blanch as the Plague Sorcerer contorts and swells. The hauntingly familiar ethereal laughter of his most hated foe worming its way through his augmented ears as an armored hand throws him from the corrosive bile. It does not fully succeed. Pathis Rot-Lord takes one last victim.

The Champion simply stares at his ostensible companion before slowly turning to walk away.

"I killed him as sure as if I had put a bolt into his skull. And nothing will wash off that shame until that fetid Warpspawn is banished forever."

Solomon sighs as Judah walks off to another part of the soon to be battlefield. The Librarian walks off back towards the large gates that lead into the city. He notes with some measure of surprise how well the wall is constructed. The large main gate is held shut by hydraulics and physical locking systems. Engraved with the image of men battling against the Grimm and nature itself and made of a very familiar alloy composed of hardened metal and Dust. It reminds him of a visit to one of the Chapter citadels on Levantus. Solomon knows who the footsteps behind him belong to.

"His sense of honor has become tangled into a destructive cycle of self-loathing, Immanuel."

The Captain pauses beside Solomon as they gaze out over their brothers. "It would be what…a century now?"

"One hundred and two years to be exact."

A pall of silence blankets the two for a moment. "The city's inhabitants tell me several of the vaunted "Hunters" will arrive soon to intercede. They utilize the Aura much like the young Orion, correct?"

Solomon nods his head. "Such strange abilities…I do not disagree with your battleplan, but I think any help would be appreciated, especially from those trained to specifically combat these Grimm."

"I wonder what these warriors could be like?"

-x-

Nora looked on sheepishly as the rest of the Hunters wake (or drags) themselves up.

"Do I really snore that loud?"

"How do you even sleep at night?" Weiss asks, half-incredulously, half annoyedly.

"Ear plugs, usually." Ren deadpans.

The interior of the Bullhead was cramped to say the least. Designed for speed and fuel efficiency, it sacrificed the carrying capacity larger craft had. However, comfort was the last thing on the passenger's minds as they sped through the early morning air. Eyes still dragged down by the enticing allure of sleep were propped up with the virtual racing fuel Dr. Oobleck had provided them with. Ruby Rose yawned as she took in her friends arrayed throughout the passenger cabin. Unusually for both team RWBY and JNPR, most of the light-hearted banter and cheer that wound through the two teams was missing, patently obvious to anyone even remotely familiar with the students. Ren and Nora were also acting quite a bit more sullen than usual.

Ruby frowned to herself, she knew why. The end of the Breach was supposed to wrap up all nice and smoothly in their minds. All the Grimm were either dead or driven out, everything was fine. The next few days of urgent reports and headline news proved otherwise. Short lived yet vicious Grimm incursions rode the waves of panic the Breach had left, but that was not the kernel of knowledge occupying everyone's mind. Something far worse had happened almost simultaneously with the Breach, it had only taken longer for the news to filter in. The Green River was drowning in a tide of Grimm seen in numbers that set some records.

Hundreds had been dying while she and her friends were celebrating a job well done.

Headmaster Ozpin had called an emergency meeting with many of the more progressed teams. Many of the licensed Hunters and senior students were already out on missions, and redeploying to the Frontier could take days those caught in the path of the Grimm simply didn't have. Ruby had never seen the Headmaster so serious before, stressing the dangers involved were beyond what he was normally comfortable allotting to the first and second years. Most surprisingly, the option was given to teams to recuse themselves if they personally felt unable or unwilling to go into such a dangerous situation.

No one had taken him up on that.

"Hey Rubes, you okay?" a voice drowsily inquired.

The young team leader looked over to Yang, reclining next to her.

"Yeah Yang…I'm just thinking about stuff is all."

"Like what the Frontier is going to be like?"

"Pretty much."

The golden-haired huntress gave her younger sister an assuring grin and some thumbs up. "Don't worry, we all have each other to rely on. I know we'll kick some serious butt and save the day like usual."

The last part of her miniature declaration was said semi-seriously and achieved her goal of getting Ruby to chuckle. Looking over to her teammates, she took in their current conditions. Blake was doing better than most, alert and conversing with the others even though she had subtle bags under her eyes. It made her uncomfortable when she remembered the last time Blake had those. Weiss was perhaps the worst out of all of them, barely awake and clearly not in the mood to be bothered. The rest of the team gave her a wide berth every morning until she could make herself look 'proper'.

JNPR was basically in the same boat. Jaune was struggling a bit while Pyrrha was fresh and alert. Ren was okay while Nora alternated between caffeinated frenzy and a sugar crash caused by an ill-advised serving of pancakes. All in all, the teams were mostly prepared in the physical sense. Whether they were prepared in the mental one, Ruby thought, well…

" **Alright everyone."** The pilot radioed through on the intercom. **"We're approaching the outskirts of Grey Pass very soon, so rouse yourselves as best as you can."**

The two teams spent the next few minutes standing and stretching out muscles sore from sleeping upright most of the way. Alongside rubbing out their eyes and a few exchanged words as well.

"Alright everyone!" Ruby clapped, beginning in a suitably determined voice, getting herself ready. "We'll be touching down soon. Apparently, Grey Pass is run by a Mayor we need to meet with first, until then try to wake yourselves up-."

The intercom crackled to life, interrupting Ruby's speech.

" **Uhhh…I don't mean to interrupt you guys but I'm seeing some…"** The pilot trailed off to seemingly try to find his words. **"Unusual activity yeah let's go with that, near the city."**

At that moment, a loud roar cut across the sky and over the comparatively meagre whine of the Bullhead's twin engines. Racing back to the windows, the teams witnessed a massive jet engine propelled craft streak by. Black and silver seemed to make up its coloration, but any further analysis was curtailed by its blinding speed.

" **Grey Pass is hailing us and telling me where to put down…also as an addendum, and I quote 'try not to freak out'.**

-x-

Taking in the vista of the Frontier City, the two teams disembarked from the Bullhead with the young reaper at the fore. Nearby at the edge of the landing pad was a man who in Ruby's opinion looked like he needed a serious power-nap. He had the look of the stereotypical overworked clerk, complete with glasses and a receding hairline. The man walked over to the group and began his introduction.

"Hello, you must be the teams Beacon sent? I'm Wilfred, the Mayor's secretary."

Ruby shook Wilfred's outstretched hand before looking back over the city. "It's great to meet you, but sorry if this sounds demanding, what the heck is going on here, where is everybody?"

The streets below the pad were indeed quite devoid of people, the only sign of life far away and towards the gate.

"Ah, yes…" Wilfred pauses. "We have received some aid from people calling themselves Astartes, or Space Marines. They showed up a day or so ago. They say they're…" The clerk sighs and trails off. "Follow me, if you don't see for yourself, you won't believe me." Wilfred spins on his heel and begins to head for the gate far in the distance.

"Uhm…okay?" Yang chimed up. "I guess we…follow him?

The teams slowly pick up the pace as they follow Wilfred into the heart of the city. Where they expected to find people, only empty streets rose up to greet them. But the place was not lifeless, in the distance the Hunters could see a large crowd gathered. From out of the mass of people, a figure emerged to meet the group halfway.

"May I introduce Laura Cooper, our Mayor."

The youthful woman seemed just as tired as the two teams. Her hair is frayed and split in many places. Her color is slightly pallid, hid by some creative applications of makeup. She sighs and stretches as the Hunters stare at her.

"Welcome to Grey Pass. I assume you people have your own orders to listen to me?" A round of successive affirmations draws a sigh of relief from the beleaguered official. "First off, we need to discuss some issues beforehand. Have any of you heard any reports or rumors, hell even tabloids about strange things happening around the Frontier?"

"Wait…you mean those videos that journalist Amarillo said were proof positive of secret Atlas Mech Kill-Teams?" Blake asked as she remembered something on the cusp of her mind. The others all seemed to remember, some pulling out their Scrolls.

Roger Amarillo was a field reporter for one of the most famous (or infamous) papers in the entire Kingdom. A self-described patriot and truth-seeker, his reports were the subject of fierce controversy. His reports were often critical of foreign political and economic involvement in Vale's affairs. But he had also uncovered wrongdoings by corrupt officials and corporate entities several times. He had to lay low recently after an exposé on a branch of the SDC had revealed a pattern of gratuitous workplace safety violations. Being sent to the Frontier was supposedly a place to wait out the heat, but it seems the scoop of the century (at least as he called it in his more recent dispatches) dropped into his lap. Grainy footage of armored figures and strange vehicles had littered the video sites and message boards of the internet for days. Laura shook her head in amusement.

"Yep, dear old Roger did always manage to poke his nose into everything since he got here. Too bad the connections' so trashy out here." The Mayor paused before seeming to gather herself. "Okay I've been stalling you guys long enough. Long story short: it is not Atlas. These guys are probably going to make every headline around the world for the next few months once this is over. Just be prepared and follow me…"

As she trails off, a commotion makes itself known at the gate near the forefront of the crowd.

-x-

An Astartes can process information that would take mortals minutes within only a few heartbeats.

The first thing Solomon notices about these Hunters is the lack of uniformity. He and Immanuel, along with an escort of two brothers march through the large gate. Their outfits are entirely different from one another's. There is nothing to suggest they belong to the same unit. No distinct markings. Only personal symbols emblazoned and embossed on varying pieces of gear. Yet Solomon surmises that it is not his place to judge. They and those like them are a bulwark against the clawing hordes of ravenous Grimm for perhaps millennia. A tacit amount of respect is due. Yet it is painfully obvious that they are neophytes when compared to the data on Hunters they have.

At the fore of the first unit is a surprisingly young girl, younger than any here. Her hair is cut short and blends from black into bright red. Her outfit is nearly the same shade of black of the Herald's armor. She is speechless, but from the way her eyes roam over the various members of the entourage, it is clear she is trying to restrain herself. And yet it's her eyes that makes her stand out the most. They shine like twin pools of silver mirroring the script etched into their war plate or the baubles hanging from his neck. There is something etheric that seems to draw his senses. She feels somehow…different, but in what way the Epistolary is unsure of. It is a muted sensation.

Next to the young girl is a figure garbed in white, mirroring her snow-white hair. She gazes at the Marines with a carefully restrained outlook. Solomon surmises she has practice disguising her emotions. The tall blond practically ogles the group, turning to whisper something into the final member of her unit. Solomon notes with some surprise that her eyes are the same noble purple as those of the Cadians. Something to investigate later. The one garbed in black simply stares with slight surprise evident in her yellow eyes. She is perhaps the most interesting. Because she is clearly a Faunus. Very little can escape the perception of an Astartes. Why she would hide her heritage is irrelevant to the Librarian.

The second unit's members appear interesting to say the least. A blonde-haired boy gazes with undisguised awe and a bit of awkward worry mixed in. Solomon notes that his posture is indicative of a relative novice. The red-haired girl seems to be his total opposite, steady and collected while having a countenance much more like a warrior. It was probable that she was the leader of the unit in retrospect. The last two were a strange pair. The one in green was superbly measured and seemed very level-headed, and another interesting shade of eye-color. By contrast his garishly dressed partner was shaking with unabashed, nearly childish excitement. For some reason she was fixated on the Captain's Thunder Hammer. He was intrigued to see how they would fare with their transforming weapons.

All of this took only heartbeats as his eyes ran over them.

-x-

It was difficult to describe the exact feelings currently coursing around Ruby's brain at that moment. The foremost feeling was a sense of pronounced disbelief at the sheer fact of their size contrasted with their movement. All four giants moved in their gear with inhuman grace. There was no clumsiness or lumbering slowness, it was as if both armor and wearer were fused into one. Then there was the armor. Each set looked like a master crafted work of art, fit for giant warrior-demigods told of in myths long past. Covered in symbology and adornments written in a language and conveying a meaning she both did not understand and felt in her heart. They wielded oversized weapons that held a dual nature of primitive and advanced, alongside beautifully crafted blades.

The only one not hidden behind the imposing helmets with their diagonal slits was clearly of some rank. His face was the next thing that caught Ruby's attention. He had the face of a kindly bookkeeper in some regards, only enlarged to a gargantuan yet heroic degree. For a transient moment, the two locked eyes and Ruby could swear she felt something buzz within her very mind and soul. As they came to a halt before the gathered Hunters, Ruby suddenly felt very small. However, the emotional and visual overload of seeing such beings anywhere outside of fantasy proved to override her sense of tact and social etiquette. Still dealing with social awkwardness, her mouth runs away from her from time to time. She blurts out the first thing that comes to mind in front of everybody.

"How does that armor work!?"

The first 'official' meeting between Hunters and the Astartes of the Ashen Heralds had begun.

-x-

The fortifications on the ramparts of the wall were bustling with activity. Runners were carrying crates of supplies and munitions to and from the many emplacements studded along its length. militia were calibrating weapons, charging batteries, and double-checking pre-sighted artillery coordinates. Yet in the middle of this spectacle was one man severely out of place. Roger Amarillo had found the perfect location, a wide enough view of the battlefield without compromising the defenses, or his own safety for that matter. Mounted on sturdy tripods were two semi-autonomous cameras that tracked the history being made before his eyes. Dressed in his signature vest, wide-brimmed hat and dark sunglasses, the investigative reporter gleefully pulled out a smaller camera.

"This is Roger Amarillo of the Vale Chronicle reporting from atop the walls of Grey Pass. By the time you see this extraordinary footage, the ensuing battle will have been long over. As indicated in my previous reports that I can only hope have reached the interior, the situation is dire for the residents of this storied Frontier settlement. I stayed as close to the onslaught of Grimm as safety and common sense would let me and witnessed the horror and suffering they inflicted."

Turning to look at the fields below, Roger started again. "The men, no the supermen you see below you are perhaps the only reason many thousands more have not perished. I personally witnessed these 'Astartes' as they call themselves rescue whole villages overnight. Sadly, my better cameras are not conducive to portability, so forgive me for such poor-quality work."

Gesturing broadly across the numerous Space Marines at work, "They claim to represent an 'Imperium' that spans the stars themselves. Ladies and gentlemen, if what they do say is true, then what happens next could change the very course of our history. Hunters from Beacon have already arrived to reinforce the stalwart defenders. The only thing everyone seems to have on their mind is to prepare for the Grimm swarming towards the city."

-x-

A mobile field command center is not meant for non-Astartes personnel. The seat benches and height of the many little things were always intended for posthuman warriors in full plate. The size discrepancy makes the youngbloods sitting on them seem comically out-of-place. Four Huntresses consisting of Team RWBY. And four others from team JNPR. It was the second thing Immanuel noticed after the expected introductions. You do not pronounce a Hunter team phonetically, but by the representation they chose instead. The first was the wildly non-standard getup each wore.

The two forces have greeted each other with as much tact and esteem as different cultures will allow. They have exchanged obligatory introductions and lapsed into uncomfortable silence for the next minute and a half or so. Sitting two apiece in the oversized thrones around the command table were some familiar and some new faces. The settlement's primary leader and her council waited patiently and nervously to the side, perhaps not yet entirely used to the Astartes but certainly trying. The Hunters seem much the same as them upon their first meeting. A mixture of transhuman dread, awe, and unbound curiosity to some degree. To see humans unaware of what they were or represented was certainly a rarity in the galaxy at large.

His fellow brothers too had a bit of curiosity to them as well. Uriah was busy, if the whirring of his lenses could be believed, looking over the wildly personalized and intricate weaponry each Hunter carried. The shifting designs seemed to catch Uriah's imagination. Solomon scanned their faces with a soft smile, yet Immanuel knew his interest in the peculiar psychic activity of the planet meant his vision was cutting far deeper than usual. The others seemed mildly intrigued, though Judah seemed not to care in the least, standing off to the side of the Captain. Feeling the minute's pause was enough, Immanuel began the briefing.

"As discussed briefly before, I am Immanuel, Captain of the 4th Company of the Ashen Heralds. The plan I have devised makes extensive use of the terrain to blunt the advantages of the horde."

Pressing a button, the hololithic display hums to life, intriguing many of the human observers. The map shifted to reveal the slope and the plains in front of the city.

"The high ground provided by the slope will allow us a good field of fire on the horde. Furthermore, the Gap as you call it provides a singular approach that aids in concentrating the Grimm for our weapons to do maximum damage. As for our forces, they are divided into three defensive line which can then collapse back into…"

Immanuel started to go into depth about the intricacies of the grand battleplan. It involved defense in depth strategies, coordinated airstrikes, designated crossfire zones and dozens of other meticulous plans with well-prepared contingencies. At least half of his explanation seemed to elicit confusion in the humans, although most seemed to get the gist of the main points.

"…Much of this is meant for Astartes to follow, however you Hunters are capable warriors in your own right. Do you have any suggestions about where you might fit best in this plan?"

Immediately afterward, the Hunters began to whisper among themselves. He could hear every word they said but chose not to out of respect. Although by their tone, Immanuel could tell they were somewhat out of their depth. Though the red one seemed surprisingly cogent given her relative youth. Eventually, they seemed to reach a consensus after a few minutes of deliberation. The red one spoke up.

"We would probably be better in the middle line nearer to the front though, if what you're saying about the fighting at the front line will be like. We could help contain any breakouts and could pick off packs more easily when they get spread out."

Immanuel quirked an eyebrow up. "I see you have carefully considered this, and I approve as well. There are sections in that line that could use good specialists."

Solomon chose to speak then.

"If I might suggest? If they are to work with our brothers, a deal of…fraternization is necessary."

-x-

Lucas milled about the rear portion of the middle line, watching the two teams just flown in from Beacon. He wasn't going to delude himself, he hated them, and he envied them. His weapon had been cobbled together from one off a corpse and spare parts rather than made at a school. His training came from what little Zaff knew and the few manuals and videos he had access to. Only briefly introducing himself, Lucas decided to see what they were made of before making any friends. The young archer observed the groups tentatively meet on either side of the line with Sergeants, if he remembered the rank properly. Only once he'd seen them fight would he know what they were like.

He wouldn't have to wait long.

-x-

"Your weapons! How do they work!? What do they shoot!?"

Ruby had almost turned as red as her cloak when she had inadvertently blurted out the first thing that came to mind upon meeting the giant men. But now she had all the excuses to inquire about the amazing and new implements they all wielded. RWBY was on the right side of the middle line with JNPR being sent off to the left. The young Huntress's query was being directed at a thoroughly unready Philetus. The Assault Sergeant Olus had greeted them as cordially as a seven and a half foot tall superhuman could and introduced his squad's members. It seemed that being the newest and youngest also meant dealing with pesky natives. The bombardment of questions was something that his training certainly didn't prepare him for, though he did make a good effort of it.

"This is our standard template, in Assault Squads at least. The Mark XI Hell's Teeth Pattern Chainsword. Others in my squad have been modified to a certain extent or are differing patterns entirely and will not share properties with standard designs. Most chainsword models uses a line of mono-molecularly sharpened blades on a belt. The motor speed is controlled by this trigger and these adjustment knobs. A favored and widely-used weapon throughout the Imperium in many forms." Yang perked up at that last part.

"You're saying a chainsaw-sword is a **common** weapon where you guys come from?"

"Yes."

"…Awesome."

Weiss was speaking with Lysippus with a much more civilized air.

"So, you really are from outer space?"

"Yes, Miss Schnee."

"And this Imperium you fight for, how many people live in it?"

"The Imperium is the empire of a million worlds. Countless trillions of humans live under its authority throughout the galaxy."

"…did you say trillions?"

Philetus was now showing the properties of his Bolt Pistol to the two siblings.

"This pistol and the larger varieties also operate on the same principle after the initial discharge. Once the bolt leaves the barrel it will ignite three rocket boosters that spin and stabilize the projectile mid-flight. It will continue on until it reaches its intended target whereupon the mass-reactive warhead will impact and either penetrate and detonate or simply detonate depending on the target."

"You have whole **worlds** turned into cities and factories!?" Weiss exclaimed.

Philetus pointed at to his armor

"Our plate is cybernetically connected through these receptors implanted in the Black Carapace. It allows us to move in it much more naturally than we could otherwise. The armor itself is composed of shaped Adamantium and Plasteel encased within an ablative covering of Ceramite.

Ruby had one of her serious looks plastered on her face as she absorbed the new information. Fingers steepled, she professionally replied.

"Your most basic guns shoot gyrostabilized miniature rockets with the aim to penetrate and detonate inside targets. You use chainsaws as swords. Your armor weighs several hundred pounds and you move around in it like it weighs nothing"

Her composure broke.

"I want one of everything!"

"How can anyone manage such a bureaucratic nightmare!?" Weiss shouted, totally aghast.

It went on like this for some time.

Philetus almost wished he had been chosen as a Techmarine by the end.

Blake, by contrast, was much less sociable with the armored superhumans striding about the fieldworks. It was not to say that they did not intrigue her, or that they were not sociable with her. However there seemed to be an odd air when they made their attempts at small talk, which boiled down to mostly saying 'hello'. The one with the skull-helmet was perhaps the strangest, catching him staring for a few moments. She couldn't pin down exactly what it was that felt off, but living the life she had, getting a read on emotions was a vital tool for survival. Perhaps she was simply being paranoid around the newcomers. Looking on over the black-clad warriors, Blake peered across the field to see JNPR engaged in a conversation of their own.

-x-

"That hammer was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen! It was just so-GYUAAAH!" Nora squealed for the dozenth time.

Jaune was handling the whole 'we are not alone' situation about the same as his other teammates. While this Lysippus and his Stoneskin Squad were certainly polite, he got the feeling that having to deal with them was something they certainly preferred not doing. But they seemed to be following the fraternization order given by their superior as well as they could. It started off a bit awkwardly when they mistook Pyrrha as their team leader.

That stung a bit.

Nora was her usual bouncy self, which Jaune hoped simply confused the Space Marines rather than annoyed them. Though their chuckles when Nora promised with all her might to get them some pancakes after learning what they normally ate boded well in his opinion. However, the team leader remembered something odd from the briefing.

"Uhh, excuse me, Mr. Lysippus?" The Sergeant turned to face Jaune. "Who was that guy with the sword and shield, he never introduced himself."

The Marine in question was currently near the command post, but mostly alone. Sword and shield in hand, he ran through several combat drills against an invisible enemy. Jaune was certain only a veteran Hunter could even hope to match the kind of speed the swordsman was displaying so casually. It honestly made Jaune a bit self-conscious.

"That is Judah, our Company Champion. Greatest swordsman out of a hundred Battle Brothers."

Jaune assumed to excel in their ranks to be a big deal. "Do you think he could give me some pointers?" Jaune said it half-jokingly to start some small talk but could tell by the awkward silence that he may have said something wrong.

"I would highly advise you not joke with him of tutelage."

At that moment, the telltale roar of two of their Thunderhawks broke through the bustle on the ground.

"Especially not now."

Jaune's confused expression and half-formed response was forgotten as the Space Marines suddenly bolted into action. Like a well-oiled machine they sprung into their fieldworks and behind barricades. Tactical Squads lined up on the front while Assault Squads readied themselves to engage at close range. Devastator Squads aimed their massive weapons down towards the distant tree line. Vehicles powered up in great geysers of blackened exhaust. Within minutes the entire defensive array was bristling and ready. The large gates of the city at their backs closed as the militia rushed back inside. On the walls, Jaune could see the large artillery pieces being maneuvered into position.

Jaune was perhaps a bit inexperienced, but he was not an idiot. He knew what this meant.

The Thunderhawks touched down.

A piercing shriek cut through the air.

The ramps opened.

-x-

Eyes tinged a bloody red swept over the rapidly onrushing landscape. Eyesight perfect for spotting fleeing prey narrows in on the large mass of activity near the human settlement. Grimm are not sentient as a rule; clever tactics and the barest sense of intelligence are reserved for their more ancient compatriots. However even a simple Nevermore can feel even a muted emotion of confusion. The feeling is different, distorted, **wrong**. The giants that slaughtered dozens of its flock. The giants that denied it prey time after time. But now they had nowhere to run. The horde was at its back, and nothing could stop its advance.

The Giant Nevermore leading the advance flock was abruptly pulled away from its scouting to a curious sight below. Two giant bipedal things stride forth from their previously airborne transports. They seem almost ungainly to the untrained eye. But move with a sheer purpose that defies expectations and common sense. It is at that moment the large flock screening the pack on the ground begins a screaming power dive down at the entrenched positions. The guns open fire as soon as they enter optimum range.

Cannon shells and anti-air missiles rip into the formation, tearing massive holes through the inky black fliers. This is to be expected, swarm tactics are the Grimm's only hope and best option of overwhelming the scant hundred defenders. But they defy their primitive expectations. More fall than is expected. No shell, bolt, missile, or beam is misplaced or fired without care. A blazing orchestra of death sings through the air at both the hordes in the sky and the air. Yet the sheer weight of numbers seems to punch through the curtain of fire. Many of its brethren began to ready a barrage of razor-sharp feathers when one of the previously silent Giant machines strides forth. It stops dead in the center of the line. It raises its arms skywards.

The last thing the Giant Nevermore sees is a volcano of fire surge forth.

-x-

Jairus was once like the rest of his brothers in the 4th Company. But his proficiency as a Devastator Marine became widely known even outside of his Company. The Orks of Markard had fallen by the hundreds to his expert use of collapsing terrain. The routing of a demon incursion on Herios when his gun destroyed the blasphemous artifact holding the portal open. Eldar Grav-Tanks fell one after another when Hive Ariq came under siege when Jairus, cut off from his squad, had ducked about for six hours raining death down on the enemy. When he ran out of rockets he used improvised explosives composed of mines and Krak Grenades. That earned him the rank of Sergeant, though it cost him a leg. As he rose in renown, his brethren earned more glory in a single century than any Devastator Squad in Company History. His death had piled a legion of Traitor Marine dead at his feet and allowed the rest of his Chapter to crush the warband.

Though his body was broken Jairus, his his mind firmly intact, poured an unending torrent of fire from his twin Kheres Assault Cannons into the airborne monstrosities. The Contemptor-Mortis sarcophagus was his final reward for his centuries of faithful service. His Helical Targeting Array tracked and eliminated the dozens of moving targets with unparalleled ease. He fulfilled the role his new body had been designed for over ten thousand years prior. Underneath the Atomantic shielding and ancient armor lay the cybernetic commander of his new mobile fortress. Though the entombment had irreversibly affected him, it had the unintended effect of unearthing his vigorous love of weaponry. As the Giant avian fell trailing black ichor and bullet holes, Jairus allowed himself a small smile from within his tomb.

And he kept firing.

-x-

The forward defensive line erupted into a hailstorm of projectiles at the rapidly approaching Beowolves. Unlike their airborne allies, they had the advantage of not facing a unit specifically designed to take out multiple airborne threats. Unfortunately, that only marginally improved their chances as the ordnance tore down many of the fast-moving Grimm. Mines detonated by the dozens, taking out limbs and perforating bodies. Thunderfire shells targeted any large groupings that formed while on the move, programmed and fired within seconds by their Techmarine attendants. Whirlwind missiles of both modern and the notorious implosive rounds fired by the Deimos Scorpius wreaked havoc on the creatures. Yet despite the firepower, many were still closing in on the front line, born aloft by sheer numbers.

Then their world became fire and agony.

Beams of angry red energy swept across the mass of Grimm. Flesh ignited and turned into burning ash. Heat and fire jumped from Grimm to Grimm like a virus. Enemies simply ceased to exist from the amount of thermal energy pumped into them. The beams turned the ground in front of the front line into a massive crematorium. No bone armor, no corded muscle or sheer determination could save them from the power they now faced. To add insult to injury, a hail of Cyclone missiles rained down on the remaining survivors, blowing apart the cowardly and half-melted. The Contemptor Dreadnought lowered its Twin-Linked Volkite Culverins, barrels discolored by heat. The Cyclone Launcher high on its back still had some smoke swirling around its empty launch ports. Upon seeing that the now firmly charred ground was clear of hostiles, the massive construct turned as gracefully as it could and moved towards the rear line.

On its way, the cybernetic walker's advanced autosenses gazed upon several odd youths. Unlike his dutifully minded brothers, they stared open-mouthed at his approach and passing. Though some regarded him with…emotions he was not used to seeing upon meeting humans. His cacophonous march to the rear finally brought him to his intended destination. Before him stood his Captain…and his friend. Immanuel nodded underneath his helmet. Though the Dreadnought's attention was quickly diverted when another Astartes paced up behind him.

"Judah."

His voice was like the opening of fortress doors

"…Priam."

-x-

The City of Vale was a very old city. A very old city relegated to a relatively confined area sandwiched between the shallow coast and towering mountains. It was safe enough, but sooner or later, space itself would have to be rationed. This led to the constant demolition and construction of new higher density living spaces to cut down on excessive wastes of land. While not as good as the people of Mistral in this regard, Vale had seasoned planners to help manage the above-ground situation. But below the surface, the same underground that had to be used and reused repeatedly, it was a different story.

In ancient times, the kings of Vale had built crypts and catacombs to honor their dead ancestors. The first sewer lines came only a few centuries later, followed by pipes carrying water and wires carrying current. Subway systems and power lines crisscrossed the developing kingdom in tangled webs. The infamous line to Mountain Glen was simply another abandoned addition to the cluttered underground. Whole sections were now abandoned in favor of more modern and safer areas pre-planned with the help of architects. These abandoned sections of sewers and subway lines were simply left to rot and rust away. But that was not to say that they were completely abandoned.

Poverty and homelessness were tricky issues in a world with monsters clawing at the door. There were shelters and societies set up to help those without a home, but many were either ill-funded or sporadically useful at best. With no where to go, many saw the abandoned hovels of the underground as preferable lodgings rather than living on the street. And so, the abandoned subway stations and drained sewage atriums became home to the poorest of Vale's refuse. Refugees either unable or unwilling to resettle in the wilds unable to find a home. Faunus escaping persecution from ignorant humans. The mentally or physically disabled that the system had chewed up. Drug addicts and criminals looking for shelter from the law, for smuggling through the tunnels was a very lucrative enterprise. The Underground as it was informally called, was a microcosm of Vale's downtrodden and misfits.

It was into this pit of despair and filth that Cinder, and her two cohorts journeyed. The upper levels of abandoned stations and tunnels were occupied by simple homeless folk, perhaps desperate but not the kind of people she was searching for. No, that required a good trek down into the bowels of the earth. Inspecting Mercury and Emerald out of the corner of her eye, Cinder smirked at their current state. Faces filled with uncertainty coupled with a few cleverly concealed tatoos had already initiated their first steps into the abyss. They rarely spoke nowadays except when necessary, the things she had shown them had that effect. Now the next step of the contingency could be properly set up.

Past a large hole in the side of a tunnel was an entryway to one of the oldest parts of the oldest sewage systems built under Vale. Brown bricks worn by years of carrying human filth made their footsteps echo off the walls. Bulbs emitting bright light were haphazardly nailed into the walls by some denizen or another to light up the tunnel, many were in poor condition with some completely out. As the trio navigated through increasingly dilapidated areas, the sewer began to fade into one of the many natural cave systems that so often bled into the Underground. The sounds of human life were almost jarring to hear this far down.

"According to our informants, our Lady's agent leads many of these people. While he nominally owes her fealty, he has been out of contact for quite some time. So, some…persuasion may be necessary if he has drifted from his duty." Dejected nods from the two were the only signifiers they had understood her. Making their way into the cavern proper, Cinder smiled, it seemed that it wasn't necessary after all. A strong and charismatic voice hushes the whispers trailing among the stone. Coming to a ledge overlooking a massive central area, a crowd of hundreds gather. The trio join in the masses, all obviously exultant.

"We are the Wretched."

The voice pauses. A tall hooded man paces across a raised platform. Many sit or stand totally enthralled.

"We are the refuse the men of Vale have deemed unfit for their grand society. We are the unwanted, the hated, **filth**. The clutter under which they raise their towers for a brave new world! And yet what has that new world entailed hmm? Who is it for if not those same ones who cast us down into this darkness? Let me tell you now my brethren, this new age of peace is only for the privileged few! Tell me how many of you are refugees from beyond the so-called safety of these walls?"

Numerous hands raised up along with shouts. The speaker nods and raises his own hands, his voice turning solemn.

"I know what that is like, I know the fear and anguish of losing everything. I watched all that I had ever known torn to pieces around me. I watched my wife and children be butchered in the streets run red. I hid and prayed to my old gods for survival. To live. But at that supreme moment of weakness is what I truly needed to see how utterly useless they were."

The man walks slowly to the fore of the platform and speaks in an ominous tone.

"Something found me then, as we found each other in this place, it seemed as if it was fated. It was if a candle had been blown out. The Grimm vanished into smoke as I beheld a visage of supreme terror and unearthly radiance. The Dark Maiden, the black queen who ferries souls to the underworld had taken pity on a simple cleric. I know some of you doubt me, think me a madman, those who hear me for the first time. Doubt is just the first obstacle to be overcome on the road of a new faith. And the Dark Maiden erased my doubts and commuted my fear to dust in her embrace. She showed me just what was wrong with the world, and with myself."

"It was not death we feared, we feared life. We feared our own potential strength. Remnant is dying. A slow death, but it's dying. I did what I had to, that's all. I opened my eyes and saw what a fool all of us were, bowing to pagan idols and Kingdoms that demanded our obedience. Haha! The exultation of her truth still sends shivers down my spine. It is the freshness of life. Now I truly live!"

The crowd was getting worked into a religious frenzy. The hood was thrown back to reveal a middle-aged man covered in esoteric tattoos and ritual scars.

"The Wretched shall one day claw out of this place and back to the realm of the arrogant! We will be the inheritors of a new legacy, a new world! I am your Prophet, and thus as I speak it, so it shall be!"

As the mass of zealot undulated and cheered their cult's leader, Cinder could only smile. For behind the figure almost concealed by shadow was an unmistakable emblem. The Dark Wheel was turning in this place. And the Primordial Annihilator's first rotten foray back into this world would bring death and suffering unlike anything anybody had ever seen. Cinder laughed and cheered along with them, laughing at all the fools damning their souls to ceaseless oblivion.

-x-

 **A/N: SO sorry about the delay, college and work have been distracting me. The next chapter will be more exposition and combat heavy though. I was initially unsure about how to introduce the Hunters and the Heralds. But eventually I decided that since they weren't a bunch of superstitious nuts like many people in the Imperium, they'd be shocked but would be rational about it. In a world where giant robots and monsters already exist, you would kind of expect that right? Comments are appreciated.**


End file.
